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IF BUKOWSKI AND DICKINSON HAD A BABY, I WOULD THOREAU UP -OR- THIS POEM IS MUCH MORE CLEVER THAN YOU THINK

Pot to the kettle

I’ll be pot lucking

at your funeral

call me black.

call me back

to the foot of the bed.

head of the class

sweet piece of ass

angry snatch

Shit got weird.

and I’m not talking about our deviations

standard

made much ado about it

Wait

rewind those seven syllables

Cause it’s not for nothing

when everything that’s worth the risk

has hindsight in the warning label

Turns out?

It was never quite good

to put a loaded gun in your mouth

before you lick your lips

gloss

is the panacea

for this

parabolic

placebo

and if love is my disease

Baby,

I’m a figment of your immunization

You were a handsome man

homemade plans

charmed I'm sure

But love like this is ephemeral

Cause I don’t have my roots in the ground

My root is

C-me

I’m

eager to please

prone to being less than pragmatic

not trying to be pedantic here

giving you this prose

but the last time I was laconic

I was in utero

so you should know:

I keep my breath bated

my pleasures

equated

to the rhyme

and the reason

of what you can riddle.

If I were anything less than fanciful perhaps I’d be less scared of flight

More prone to fight

But as it is practical convention is trite

to me

See

you had me by a furlong

And an eighth of that count

Is by my count

Bukowski, fucker.

Bird watching?

Keep your London slang

Cause I’m living the American dream

Come

False.