What Would Bukowski Do?

What would Buk do?

Just sit and write

Maybe seven or eight poems every night.

What did Buk say?

Rhymes are unnecessary rules

I say to hell with that, rhymes are my jewels.

How bad was that?

It was terrible, what can I say

It'll get better if I try every day.

...

I had so many thoughts up there

Fag in mouth, eyes up in the air

It seemed great while it lasted

But sadly, they've all gone up in smoke.

Buk cared not for puncuation, style and grammar

In fact I altered that sentence for style

I think I thrive on roughness and glamor.

They all give me chills

Those writers of old,

Hem, Fitz and Twain

Something fresh, rich and bold.

But then I get hooked in

Vonnegut's experiments, Fitz's gin

Miller's yage, Kerouac's bennie

It all seems so obvious, artists can't speak

Without something to unleash a taped-up beak

To tear through conditioning, observe and then wreak

Havoc upon the unwelcoming publique.

How cheap was that?

Hell, I don't know.

I'll keep rhyming until you forget it and go.

Who mixes languages to make poetry work?

I do, that's who, I'm a trilingual jerk.

Try and tell me what to do...

But if you pay me, I'll do my best

To create the same junk that inspires the rest:

Those others that define the ways of the world.

I do nothing to contribute

They do, though, they pile up to help

To change things that need to be done

They pile up to defend the earth, the water, the sun

I agree the world is not at its best

But when has our race been an

ything other than two-faced?

I don't know anything really, and I'm proud to say

Socrates was around to name it

Long before my gene pool even existed to proclaim it

And I know that I know nothing

A phrase so commonly translated

From the Greek that made it famous

I know that I know nothing!

I'm proud to say

Not many are out there today

Who will admit it before they open their mouths to play

Topics like politics, society and laws

They speak of ignorant masses

When they are the ones that debilitate us

...

Pacing around looking for tobacco

And then a lucky break!

But next moment:

Pacing around looking for paper

A sad existence is the one

Dictated by a drug

Although....

Aren't we all, really, grasping at straws to avoid doing what hurts

That's the stuff that really works

It's OK, I'm doing it right

Gotta keep looking

Right

I ended swallowing my pride and venturing downstairs to the pub to fetch some rolling papers. Tight-jawed, pyjama-clad and zoned-out, I managed to: squeeze my way past drunken strangers enjoying their night out, strike up a conversation with an awkward acquaintance and a friend I'd said goodbye to a couple of hours earlier, and finally convince the manager on duty to kindly provide me with some god damned rolling papers, which I had just spent an inordinate amount of time trying to locate in my countless belongings.