Could he be Bukowski?

Same poison;
Ever present in his veins,
His eyes are concentric circles of pain and confusion,
Splintered with red cracks of excess and exhaustion.

Vomit and diarrhoea,
Between the manic anti-establishment,
And the depressed reality, that this establishment exists to serve.

Shattered ice;
Lacerating the throat of some that cure
And melting into nothing of any substance,
But his scrawlings have more impact than his breath.

An insight;
Into the flesh bravado
Genuine sociology meets conspiracy theory,
Paranoid maybe, but silently honest about it.

He is more than uncooperative;
Elegantly pitiful and endearingly anti-social,
Could he be, a Bukowski?

Written September 2010


Popular posts from this blog

Her Fingers

Our Boy

Displaced Redemption