kill bukowski

I hate the dirty old man and his mirror words

page after page

drink after drink

f**k after f**k

tale after tale

from the life of an ordinary man,

how dare he write the s**t I only think about

 

I love the poet and his couragous addiction

to the twists and turns of a phrase

days and nights spent

at the typewriter,

then computer,

the old yellow writing pad,

the coffin

then risen from the dead

to become the buddha

the mohammad

the moses

the satan

the nietzche

the jesus of spoken word

 

I'm indifferent toward the novelist

for I've not read his novels

one day, after reading a couple of them

I'll comment . . .

 

I despise the commentator who sees through it all

who knows nothing about me yet can tell my story

after drinking four bottles of wine

 

Kill bukowski

before he completely inspires

then ruins me.

 

December 7th, 2009

 

© 2009 Mark C. Jackson

Author's Note

review

Reviews

[TheFemininePad]

I'm alittle confused here. I looked up on Google about bukowski, but I'm still trying to figure out exactly what your poem means. I think not knowing about the person makes it hard for me to relate to this writing. It's well written, but I'm just unsure of what you are trying to convey here.