Ode to Bukowski

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Ode to Bukowski by Andrew Stergiou

Packed tightly, stamped and shipped,
There was one more thing,
For when another drink was drunk,
A poet or drunken sot became,
What otherwise had to walk and run,

Why was the poet a poet, for the money and grandeur,
For the last grasp upon the dignity of pride,
In what self worth began,
Om in what was objectified as a raw steak,
In the tenderloin of  commercial insanity,
That began it all, the imagination where we hide,

“with the  whore who stole my poetry”

For the days were long and life was short,
Weither the bills were paid,
Where no more was left  to buy a glass of scotch,
where there is nothing venture and nothing gained,
As long as it is kept revealing as lies it is,

So why was the poet a poet,
Drinking and smoking his way in life,
Into and down the halls of heaven and hell,
Gertrude screamed at Harry,
As she fell and torn the bottle from his hands,
Where Charlie watched,
Delivering the mail, to those who didn’t read.

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