I was thinking of the beats when I wrote this one.

This is not a pretty poem
it will lack color -
it will lack passion -
there will be voids
I will try to fill
with my words

this poem is rather
like a pool hall whore
her face worn by excess -
by sex, by pain and booze
by pillows stained with sweat
by the rank pull of a bloody
blackened sea of bottomless drinks

I'm not sure if I should
call it a poem - there's no Asphodel
no intricacies of meter - no rhyme
maybe it's as ugly as sin -
maybe it's a lonely portrait
of a face - quite possibly my own
the one i did not want to gloss
over today with a melancholy madrigal
sung by an ancient troubadour
from Spain.