Ode to Chuck B.

Bukowski you old devil
You got me through
The worst of times
And gave me the perfect thing to say
When I found the best of times
I sit here
Stuck to myself
The remnants of love
And lust
Adhering to each other
Seems for me the two are intertwined
Not so for others
Or maybe
More easily distinguishable?
Doesn’t matter about others though
I’m happy
So goddamn happy
To sleep in rumpled sheets
Sweat and and other solutions
A perfect damp nest to lay myself down tonight
I found something else that fills though
You were wrong about that
Well, probably you weren’t
But you were right to mark the good
More often than the bad
Tonight’s tryst was bumble bees
With budding flowers awaiting pollination
A late spring on an autumn night
My neglected manhood in both metaphor and noun
Rocked boldly once more into an upright and erect existence
And now dawn approaches I defy it with clouds of smoke
Bringing in that acrid stench
Sweet let down to my racing fevered mind
I’m shaking with post anticipation
Of history repeating itself.

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