Bukowski, again


oh holy poetic father
your long skinny soul
scrawled across the backs
of thousands of naked spines
and how each drop
of battery acid
dripped from the dots
in the eyes
and the holy crosses
across the t’s
that hung suspended in time
to reach out like
hands with holes
just to barfight my liver
just to curbstomp my stomach
into submission
has helped me sift through
the madness for the word, the
line, the way

but here we are
at the end of the way
and the bottle wasn’t bottomless
i’ve seen the bottle
dropped off the building
and smashing against reality
a fist of misogyny
an inability to step away
from the drunken typewriter
to never grow
(as did the flowers you loathed)

there are too many great poets
who pot shot the page nightly
but never stepped out
of the square ring
to see the round earth desperate
for a pair of rugged hands
to build the cities they dreamed up

in their dreams unrealized
unrealized dreams are the worst nightmares
and Bukowski
sweet devil Bukowski
you are the worst nightmare

the victim flower that cursed the fiery sun
for trying to keep him alive

Brice Maiurro is a poet from Denver, Colorado. He is the author of Stupid Flowers (Punch Drunk Press) and Hero Victim Villain (Stubborn Mule Press). He is the editor-in-chief of South Broadway Ghost Society and the poetry editor for Suspect Press.


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