À la Bukowski, but not quite

That redhead that fucks
through the ages
survives through time,
Spat on Charles, Oscar
some other meaningless poets and I,
has the nerve to present us
with those beautiful long toes
that crumble exactly like a failed poem
when she moans.

There are two types of women.
Both types are allowed in
my flat.
That includes my room
and every other shared rooms:
kitchen, bathroom, corridor and every other spherical lamp.
Shared, I said!
May no one enter her room!
that she doesn't even share with insects
and that includes cockroaches,
cockroaches, cockroaches and woodlice.
Oh the pure and the impure.
Oh that sweet and twisted balance in devotion.

Two types of women I suppose:
the ones that come to bang their head against the light
and the ones that come for the rotten food.

The ones that bang their head against the light starve their love to death.

But not this one, barefooted, the stratosphere is the sole of her feet
and what a soul, breaking my every lock with hair clips, sharp nails and a melting voice,
sliding underneath the door like previously inhaled smoke unable do find
its way out.
She will make sure to hit every step of the way with her big beautiful long left toe
and I will make sure I let my love be guided by this blind woman,
like a beautiful poem, wherever she may roam.

Diogo Baiao 17/10/2015