the PugilistA Poem by jacob erin-cilbertothe Pugilist Bukowski spilled his wine all over my poetry in rampant disregard he just got another glass and typed sitting cross legged at his desk non-apologetic about his life his manner his murmur of stories that following of his oh, my God the tortured artist with his girlfriend's cheek imprinted on his fist lovely Man wrote pain as he inflicted it He is an anti-hero with abusive courage even his words fear him I read him once or twice spilled my brandy on his words to get him back he just laughed and wrote more poems as I noticed more imprints on his fist a fistful of poems and here I thought Clint Eastwood was too old for that. erin-cilberto 12/16/21 © 2021 jacob erin-cilbertoReviews
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13 Reviews Added on December 20, 2021 Last Updated on December 20, 2021 Authorjacob erin-cilbertoCarbondale, ILAboutOriginally from Bronx, NY, I live in Carbondale, Illinois...teach English at a community college and have been writing and publishing poetry since 1970. I am here to read for inspiration from other po.. more..Writing
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