HARD CORE

searching for
my inner Bukowski

scanning every word,
inclination

ruthlessly scrutinizing

fastening onto
all the scruffy, seedy places
where, turning over
some unkempt stone,
I might
just find him

turning
the tables upon myself
tables I can now easily
drink each
and everyone
under

sinking my last inspirational shot
to welcome first light of dawn

and
then there are the
creatures of night’s pleasure
I might now
feel
free to consort with

the boxes of cigarettes
stacked mile high
I should
suicidally smoke through

in
the name of art

burnishing an image
burning my trash
openly
on all and sundry’s lawn

that manicured lawn
cropped
close as a Brazilian

delight
in the mind as such

thoughts, hard
                 to the core just
spurt
   from my mouth

Published by Damian Garside