The Bastard Child Of Bukowski

Yes, I am the bastard child of bukowski
an inept sob that isn’t much good at anything
but scribbling out bits of howls and paranoia
on lined paper or late notice envelopes

I drink beer like I breathe air and sunlight sears
my late-night eyes
I live in dives where I troll for middle-aged waitresses
whose eyes are heavily lined with despair and desperation
and then we make drunken love in my hovel of a room
tossing spent night train bottles at the roaches

I worked at the post office for a while
sweet gig but it drained the life out of me
day by friggin’ day
I left when I kicked a young punk’s ass
for calling me an ahole

all that beer and cheap wine is killing me
but crap we all gotta die sometime
and I wasn’t made to be a chump
with a fat squawking wife and two
mean-eyed teens

I did manage to sell some of my stories and poems
but man they wanted to suck it all out of me
screw them, all of ’em, dad
you know what I mean?

- your bastard child