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| Photo Credits: Lee La |
Bukowski stares at me
Bukowski stares at me from the wall.
Scowling, growling, abusing
because I have sold out.
Good morning you fucking idiot.
Go force a shit and run to work he says,
hurling a bottle of beer at me.
I duck, as I have ducked my dreams,
for a pay cheque at the end of the month.
Writing on the weekend is the plan
of a thousand deluded writers around the world.
I think of Whitman wandering in green fields,
sleeping under trees in a drunken stupor,
I think of Hank scratching his balls,
stubbing a cigarette, and gambling.
They never waited for the weekend.
Why should you or I?
Love and smoke
They say
cigarettes
will kill you.
And I say,
so will love.
The world is
teeming,
bursting
at its seams
with people
in love.
So I would
rather watch
these dervishes
of smoke dance.
People love people.
I love white cylinders
of grey light,
that char lips
of lovers
and loners alike,
these silent
orange lighthouses,
that steer our lost souls
through lonely nights.
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