Charles Bukowski
What a perfectly wicked man.
Perfectly wicked!
Perfectly wretched!
But truly, honestly so.
Give me one man
Who is what he is,
And nothing more pretended.
You know that you secretly
Hang upon his poems.
Because they are real.
You steal away
When you believe
That no-one is watching.
And it is you we see
Cowering.
Hunched over.
Hanging upon:
"If it doesn't come bursting out of you...
Don't do it!"
But then of a Sabbath
You dress in your Sundays
And sit at the feet
Of your whited sepulchers.
You pretend
That you believe
The polished poison
That drips
Like Calamine Lotion
Into your itching, bleeding ears.
Tell us lies, you say.
Tickle us with your forked tongues
And make us believe
That you are truly good,
That one can be good.
You know that it is lies
But you clamor:
Tell us again
How you slew the dragon.
Tell us how you ever
And ever
Were and are
All that we hoped you to be.
We know it is lies,
but tell us again
so that we too,
May one day
Worship at our own feet.
Charles Bukowski...
Spin us a poem
From the dirty.
Wretched.
Street that you are.
Only there do we worship
The thing that is real
The thing that is best
As it is - No more.
We too
Are wretched
But are loath to admit.
Aspiring hypocrites,
We sit huddled round
To hear...
The Truth.
Not the Truth
Of what man believes,
But The Truth
Of what
We really are:
Just wicked.
Wretched.
Miserable men.
Like good old Charles Bukowski.
