Why we never make it to Bukowski’s grave
Black Lilly’s hang in the garden
of Sir Edgar and Sire Alan and Sir Poe
Longfellow wants me to stroke his fellow
and Emily Dickenson likes to pick the crud off
perverse unpoetic poetries as it offends her, HER,
yeah fucking right, I tell my lover, the kill author who
suggests dinner with Bukowski on his grave, he says we
can hang patio lights and plant plants around his headstone
talk poetry and bullshit and more poetry and less bullshit and
then get down to the real bullshit of why authors had to evolutionize
in less than 50 fucking years, and why typewriters are now for roaches
and paper and pens are for third world countries, third world babies, third
world generation X’s and this is rather depressing conversation as I pour me
another glass of cheap champagne wondering why in the fuck my author lover and
I never make it to Bukowski’s grave much less to the liquor store for some real booze?
I really lovely piece Devlin…bravo…excellent…:)
Ah, Philip. . .love the comment! I had to dig into the land of the lost & forgotten poetry for this one. I think Bukowski would have been proud:)
~Devlin
Did a great job!
Thank you, Philip:)
~Devlin