no Bukowski, by Herman Shorts

no Bukowski

now, I’m no Bukowski

but my friends who don’t like poetry

except his stuff, tell me

they like mine, and I can drink

like a drinking machine

especially if you’re buying

so maybe I am.

(2013)

people, mostly all barely beyond apes, cannot be trusted. they are incapable of caring

I will meet you in the open air, & pet your pony’s nose. You will be

just start over not so much like anything was particularly

like bell bottoms or disco but we need it to think i’m dead

the conquering child turns 50, gets the gag out its mouth, says here i am. let’s play now

shut my eyes and squeeze my demand, the point of a spear. what will happen.

we go walking around walking all over this town nothing ever getting us down cause we’re just a couple of clown…

webwomb’s not the maker of me. came into it as falling is done. down, only always

they really do know how to shove something up your ass like

every story, especially those promising finally to grant the square hat with tassels, is a load of shit. the god which

when (finally) we meet I’m thinking spring wildflowers will bloom on high

no means no. no response means no. (everyone knows maybe means nothing

better fucking eat it all up. time is getting drunk & may puke, be rude, before finally

was all stupid. you weren’t that entertaining. i find it all only sad now, that

yes, there is a gap between us always has been now it is