An Almost Bukowski
M M.J. Lemon
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Waking up
not sure when
but as always beside
a pen
and not yourself today
So embark on a journey
of two floors down
where the gin drowns in a beer
and clouds appear
in reminiscences
while the scorching sun bakes
your thoughts into a slurry
from which the grains of sensibility
never ever
Escape
this tragic sordid
existence that will guarantee you'll
never be drinking from that fountain
in Paris
where dreams and sex are borne
you don't partake
Because there's so little to do with
tiny blue hands
but the feet are always busy-
'step over those goldfish
and don't ever lose that smile'
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