Bukowski

Concerned with writings

Of a mad man

Distracted by the sounds of

Aged music

A young poet sips

Hot coffee

As his stomach trembles

He thinks “one more poem, then,

Only then, I’ll be goodenough.”

Concerned with how one uses

The word fuck in elegant

Fashion.

He forgets the power

Of his fingers

How they slide down her chest,

How they wipe his ass crack

Bukowski keeps his thoughts running

“Forget it kid, a poet doesn’t give a shit,

You, however, give a shit.”

“Fuck you.” the young poet says

“Atta boy.” Bukowski smiles