Horseshit

I read your poetry

what wonderful word play

too bad I can’t fathom horseshit

otherwise I would be reading the rest of Bukowski’s rants

he laughs at both of us from the grave

he had it sweaty but easy

an hourly wage to fund gambling, a typewriter, smokes, drinks, and a lot of pussy

but a woman is always the culprit to man’s creativity

she exites and amplifies it at first

then sucks it all out one ejaculation at a time

she neutralizes the madness with sweet tenderness

and Bukowski sure as shit regretted his married life along with the dozen cats that fed him hairballs for dinner

he thought he had it with whores and dumbbellinas

until he got caught in one of their hippy webs

mother spider wrapped him up nicelyt

and made him a domesticated pet

the fucker finally became celibate, and calm, and scared of death

what a maddening experience it is to be freed from your own madness

no longer a suicidal crazy bastard but a well-behaved fat pervert with occasional break outs

what a waste

I finish a cigarette in his honor

He failed to reach a point

It was all a clown show for pussy income

I take a shot of brandy on top of red wine

loneliness is a hell of a drug you see?

no I bet you don’t

loneliness is something you’re born with

and grow up with

it’s the skin you can never shed

today has been as it must have been

a meaningless struggle to get it all together

it is all together but all shattered at the same time

little fragments of what used to be whole

Bukowski coughs up “Don’t try, kid” onto his gravestone

I never had an incentive to do so uncle

meanwhile on the bed

I go back to your poems

and think to myself

what a wonderful occupation it is

to be all pretense without any intention

sell me a mirage

show me your false heart

I don’t care baby

what we really are is far more primitive

all I want is your lips on mine

so we can both shut up for a moment

and exchange breaths and bacteria in silence

take off your clothes and turn off your rotted brain

too bad it all only turns on mine further

now get on with the dirty business

let me feel what you’re made of

stop talking, stop jittering, stop pretending, start pumping

I look into your eyes staring into mine

it’s as if the abyss is looking into a mirror

somehow your eyes evoke the reminiscence of a 19th century hipster

I forget about you for a second and think of Nietszche’s mustache

I think to myself that it must be a cool experience to be crazy in German

I fade back into now

I look away from your big shiny eyes and onto your piercing nipples

the elixir of life is once again sacrificed to the void

the reaper laughs at me from the shadows for I only sharpened his scythe

I won’t thank you for dampening my fire

but as long as the agony stops poking me for a while

we can both say it was a good time

we fall asleep too willingly against our will

your warm body sticks to mine with sweat glue

I would be happy if my last breath is then

There can’t be many better deaths

To have fucked one last time before departure

Better luck next time

We awaken once again amidst the madness

that’s where you’ll forget my name

and my voice

and my smile

and how it all felt

yesterday’s love morphs into today’s indifference

you get busy with another cobweb

the next meal is around the corner

meanwhile your sweet taste lingers in my fantasies

for it never happened

it was all horseshit