After reading this:
Just for fun I decided to post this:
Where are the Alden Nowlans
Enough Bukowski to create a love hate
with his bar fly music's two fisted songs.
A feigned ego and mental self flogging;
I think he should have married Ginsberg.
Whiny, self loathing men crying out
for their mothers and their lost childhoods
or the loves they only thought they had;
players in a lottery without tickets.
Nothing wrong with their mechanics,
but there's no fish guts or slippery decks here,
just tired words down dusty old roads,
a never ending pain in the ass.
A little tenderness might be nice
but I 'm too pissed
to scrape it off the floor.
If I could only talk to Alden Nowlan