Poems| Karan Mujoo

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
will kill you.
And I say,
so will love.

The world is
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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