Shay Crinkle

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Charles Bukowski's last poetry reading - The Last Straw

March 31, 2014

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Where Are You?

I found one of your hairs today. Twisted it around my finger until there was a pulse. It snapped so I set it free out the window. Where are you my love? Sometimes I think you can hear me. Who knows. An eyelash was stuck to a bathroom tile. Straighter than mine, different. I wondered if it was yours too. I didn’t make a wish on it. Wasn’t sure it works that way when it’s not your own So I wiped it off. Don’t know where it fell And I feel bad about it now. All these tiny things. Pieces of you sprinkled around. I can see them, hold them But I cannot see you.

The Prince And The Poppet- to return

The Prince And The Poppet For far and wide they crowded round to see the Prince’s face, From distant lands before his hands, they’d bow before his grace. Rumours had spread that on this day he would declare the news Of whom he loved but who was it that he would finally choose... © Shay Crinkle for Valentines 2013 The rest of the story will return soon.. perhaps in a different form... keep a look out!

The Boy With Paper Skin

The boy with paper skin... He walked beside the sea. In his mind. Dreaming of a fine summer's day, such as this one, when the cool fresh water may wash over his feet and tickle his toes, as it did before. Gazing out his window, he watched the happy couples stroll across the promenade, making their way to the beach. The barely covered bodies of the beautiful. The healthy.Their skin seemed flawless as it reflected the shimmer of the sun. Perhaps a cut or bruise disrupted the sheen of their perfect golden limbs but that was all. How he wished for such trivial markings on his own skeletal wrapping. He'd sit for hours, looking out of the window. Watching the world go by. Sometimes he'd liken the window to a TV, only he couldn't change the channel or adapt the brightness. He often preferred it though. It gave more scope for the imagination, he thought. The soft breeze carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle past his fragile face. Cracking a smile, the boy

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©Shay Crinkle

Charles Bukowski's last poetry reading - The Last Straw

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