Monday, January 02, 2012

a word on Bukowski

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

Tom Hemeon