Adults Views

Dating sites left Carole dreary. She both dreaded and embraced the images of the guys she would get, the lonesome hunch and slow walk of another man cheating deaths door. Bukowskis she called them, though i doubt they could have written her anything.

She basked in the glow of depravity. She loved to look at figure like Charlie Buk, the hobo, the homeless soulful poet left in the cold by the society that shut itself away from any kind of magical imagination.

Her first husband was a poet. He drank himself to death within 9 months of them being together. First he blamed it on marriage nerves then on not having a job, then on a creative lapse, finally as he choked and coughed blood from his bellowing and clotting stomach he laughed and recited 'the laughing heart', it was an ugly soul teasingly beautiful scene. For a long time he was still her idol, but now he was gone, burnt in the flames, his ashes long since sent to sea, to the waves he longed so much to caress. He was lovable, when you knew him

But now here she was on dating sites. Shed married twice more, each more depraved and deprived each desperate just for someone, something. She had taken them in, hoping they would paint liquid words in front of her. But they never did. They shook too much for a start.

They always drank, that made her drink, or at least drink in the knowledge she had an excuse. She curse with them, smash glasses into snowflake showers on the walls, and paint with her bleeding fingertips in the morning.

She wasn't a writer. The English language was far too limited for her she said. There wasn't another word for love, amore, bahibak, they were just single words, nothing more. They were just letters, they didn't mean a thing. Like the artists brush only split light and spread colours, words only described they didn't feel. So she couldn't write

Still she lost her in poetry. Drowned her lonesome days with passage after passage. Somehow those few words, those dreadful reductions of life when put in the right pattern to her glowed brighter than dreams of star shine.

So here she was again on dating sites. Looking for Bukowski on dating sites. It was a strange life, a quiet life, one her blond haired childish face would not have ever pictured.

She might have written a short story about it.

But she relied on me to do it for her.