wrapped in cellophane.
‘Eat,’ he said.
‘Forget rhyme,’ he said.
I hated him in daily doses
while I ate his bugs.
Charles had the LA grime in
‘I could have had you,’ he said.
I looked around at the bar, the
Formica shine of strip lighting,
the cold, conditioned and unclean
air and the woman in a red fake
fur who purred,
‘You believe him, honey.’
She hung about for his cigarettes.
She opened and closed her thighs.
His low ass hung over his stool.
The bar lit up cheap orange in
cocktail delight while I snacked
on brown peanuts, bursting bug
salt on my tongue, and music
churned up low and hard,
and livid ghosts arrived with
their glass empty eyes, their limbs
dancing the smell off their bodies
slick and soft, and Charles lifted
the red furred woman onto his lap,
into a hell of sorts, and all his poetry
was a hot skin of drink and air.