but these poems keep rising to the top of my
head with more and more
force.now
after the oceans of booze that I have
consumed
it would only seem that attrition would
be my rightful reward as I continue to
consume - while
the madhouses, skidrows and graveyards are
filled with the likes of
me -
yet each night as I sit down to this machine
with my bottle
the poems flare jump out, on and
on - roaring in the glee of
easy power: 65 years
dancing - my mouth curling into a
tiny grin
as these keys keep meting out a
substantial energy of cock -
eyed miracle.
the gods have been kind to me through this
life-style that would have killed
an ox of a
man.
I sensed from the beginning, of
course, that there was a strange gnawing
inside of me
Charles Bukowski in You Get So Alone At Times It Just Makes Sense
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