Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Charles Bukowski

I want to go to a love hypnotist
who will hypnotize me into believing
that I'm Charles Bukowski.
I want to talk about "dames"
and run every bitch on earth
into the ground in poetry
that's so manly it's not afraid
to be prose half the time.
Bitch is unisex. Men can be bitches.
I want to pretend I don't love a guy
holed up in what might as well be
my yesterdays' cheap motel
acting out a dog breeding event
over and over, over and over.
I want to be Charles Bukowski
in my broken faggot heart
and go to the racetrack
and hate everyone I fucking see
while playing the horses.
I want to talk about the horses,
how much more beautiful they are
than humanity. I want to punch men
and pull women by their hair
across the carpet until we reach the door.
Then I want to kick them out,
then kick them all over again
in a poem I write laughing.
I want to fuck those half my age
on a regular basis,
and not even ask them
when I cum in their mouths.
I want to believe the smell
of my own bodily wastes
is truer than any philosophy,
especially love's joker "philosophy."
I want to walk down the street
and enjoy the fact that people
look at my ugly face and wonder
what confidence is doing there.
I want them to doubt themselves.
I want them to die in honesty,
but my kind of honesty.
I want to wear a wifebeater
and boxers to my own funeral.
I want people to salute me in the coffin
dressed like that. I want to say
FUCK LOVE and oh yes
I want to drink like a Viking,
drink so fast even cirrhosis can't keep up.
I want to fuck my liver
the way I fucked my women.
I want to die not loving you
but the elevator shaft of my own poetry
down which I push humanity
over and over and somehow
manage to keep it funny,
admit it motherfuckers.
I want to be that guy.
I want to be the worst thing
to ever happen to A.A.,
Charles Bukowski.
I want to be Los Angeles personified,
Charles Bukowski.
I want to stop loving you,
except I really don't..
I just don't want to be undead
the way it is without you.
Please come back and at least
be my motherfucking friend.
Even typing these words just now
I felt a fucking kick in the balls.
You're him now. aren't you?
You're Charles Bukowski now,
aren't you? I'm in love with
Charles Bukowski, it's so fucked.
Husbands and wives, Beware!
Sharp words and neglectful ways
can turn any man or woman
into this angry child
filled with the poetry of fury.
Bukowski himself was born
to angry immigrants
who left the country of love.
More immigrants from love
arrive every day. Many of them
come because Charles Bukowski
lifts his lamp beside the golden door
in his poetry, which has no immigration policy
whatsoever and hopes to accept
the billions that McDonalds does
with enough time, with enough
bullshit stories like mine. And yours.








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