‘Tis a fair question, what the hell does Bukowski know?
But then what do I know?
What the hell do any of you know about poetry?
Some of the poems I see read so bad I can’t get my head round it
And when I tell someone how I feel they reckon I’m missing the point!
Truth told, there is no point, the luck that comes with becoming a poet just that
Bare luck!
Write what you know, right? That is what I am doing right this minute
Writing what I know about poetry
Poems filling books with about as much rhythm as a drunk trying to play the guitar
As much rhythm as it not being over ‘til the fat lady sings
I’ve news for you, she ain’t ever gonna sing
Which means that the tripe getting published will never end
No two ways, Bukowski’s laughing from his grave
And why not?
He was the first to admit that he didn’t know what he was doing
Proven in the way that he wrote
Who in their right mind begins a sentence with a full stop anyway?
Someone not in the right frame of mind it seems
.I ate a big yellow banana this morning and some burnt German sausages after that.
Chances are, and I’m not joking either, that’s the sentence that stands more of a chance of
Ending up inside a book of sorts
You can mark my words, quite literally