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
poems 2 die for 