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?


  1. I really lovely piece Devlin…bravo…excellent…:)

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