WANNA BE BUKOWSKI

The page no longer rolls off the typewriter

It merely fades into a file

Big dirty apes fill tv screens

Ego and alcohol have blessed this man

No body mold could hold his figure or face

Only life could produce something with so many scars and so many distastes

So eager to be sour

So happy to be displaced

Beautiful deep crevices following a heart broken face

Wait

“No rhyming poetry in Henry Chinaski’s house!”

Stone-cold sour was his look of choice

French cigarettes and cheap Italian wine

Nine beers on my part just for the night

Poor man’s curse

This thing called a job

Yet here I am playing Bukowski’s part

I was born into this

No money no grave

I was born into this

The one that cannot be saved

I was born into this

To steal from those I crave

I was born into this

These aren’t original ideas

I know it’s time to quit

But who says

Is will my only choice

Consequence

Beer after beer

Drink after drink

Hour after hour

Each one depletes

Leaving less and less each moment