Bad poets
want to be all of Bukowski
Fuckingthe living daylights
out of the young girl across the way
Drinking till they
vomit up all the pain
of being misunderstood
Poetic and tragic
Ploughing through tales
you wouldn't wipe your arse on
Screaming strong
at lame poetry readings
deep in the bowels
of open age bars,
where lesbians and bad looking aged men
in rock and roll T-Shirts
smoke cigarettes
in the only place that
makes them feel worthwhile
I say,most of you pricks who give good poets a bad name
tell us Buk was your hero,
taught you everything you know
and showed you that hope rests in poems.
Showed you how to toucha woman's cunt
with gusto and write all night with nothing but a half bar of chocolate
and the smell of the deep frying and sadness
happening up your American street.
But you'll be finding that for all your wishing
and writing on the walls
that
cunts don't want to be touched
by paled hand ended poets
wristed up
from paper- thin poems
They're aching for the good
fisting love /ready to roll around in their lips/of a hard lived man
Waiting to wipe grease up their thigh
spelling out dirty
one syllable words.
For all of you,I'll sit here and keep writing on
stolen sour
coloured thick paper
about all the goodness and glory
that I find in the bottle
and wanting to fuck
all these women up my street
with not an ounce of Bukowski on my mind.
And when you start
writing your
lame arsed poetic verse
about the hero
we could all be
if we wrote like him,
up boils the imageI have of that old bastard
/when once a movie was made/
with him sitting softly under a tree
reading Rimbaud waiting to die with the daisies
and tears
in his Herpe laden eyes.
Thinking about the love he had missed
on the way to his lonely silence filled grave.