Love Like MacGowan’s Mouth

you're like something

from MacGowan's mouth

the unexpected beauty

slipping out

from between the gaps

of this broken-toothed world

and I said I wasn't going to

write love poems anymore

but then you're always

in my dreams

and I forget to stop

so I thought I'd write you

something ugly

like the dirty streets below

the transcendence

of our imaginations

those rooms we sometimes

lock for days

cages

filled with the unfurling wings

of pages scattered on the floor

and sheets recoiling as the tides

from the corners of the bed

somewhere inside our heads

before we dress

and I step out in stockings

snagged and already torn

and you with cigarette

on your breath

you call that tear

of nylon

down my leg

a window to my soul

and I say you must be

the hero of Bukowski's world

because we take our greys

as opportunities

to see the colours standing stark

the way we both prefer the night

for how the stars can shine

but settle for the fix

we hustle from

the neon lights

and everyone we pass

a refugee

looking to be loved

even us

who stand so well alone

but I don't want to be your beauty

I'd rather be the ugly

you revere

the way you are the song

the heavy hand

of dawn

can never disappear