that's what it must of been like, to sit and hide

if I was alone again,

it'd probably let myself rot or

stand ablaze like a confused rat.

it'd be back at in hell,

tightrope

suicide

the empty wine bottle almost seemed

romantic back then,

the cigarettes flaring and

the the poems

pouring

pouring

pouring

like a sweet rain upon

bukowski's grave.

to be back at war again,

leather jacket pen.

bad boy of poetry