I wish I was Charles Bukowski.

This latter name, or bitter end, a name known before I even knew how to read. Or perhaps I did in  another life.

Times blur is but illusions rolling mist. Clouds the eyes.

But he,

This one,

He’s different.

(Oh how many times, these words,

Writ I, upon the page🙄?)

He uses words like ‘cunt’.

Not a big fan of it,

But mine hears her name called out.

Then his blunt knife, a blade sharp in verse.

Deliberate after such descriptive blabberings.

That wrap your entire body in a knot.

The kind that doesn’t come undone,

Yet you have.

The taste lingers,

But oh how sweet.

(A giggle.)

(A knowing smile.)

My favourite —right now anyway—-

‘Love is a dog from hell’

Charles Bukowski

poems from 1974-77

Especially Chapter 3.

-I am Scarlet. ‘get it on over’.

-Red Up and down so beautifully written she stands before you.

And like a flower in the rain-?

You become.

Huge ear rings- have you ever tried laying down like this?

And OF COURSE,

A Killer.

‘Nuff said.

I wish I was Charles Bukowski.

How can a poetry written over forty years ago  be so refreshing ?

Live your truth.

Write your truth.

He’s brilliant just for being.

What is your brilliance in being?

Sometimes I’m scared to paint like that. Even write like that.. but then you read something from Charles and life seems pretty ok. Even funny. Just be who you be. He had a great way of sharing it with the world.

Reading poetry  Inspires me. I have books of poetry floating throughout every space I occupy.

Thank you Charles.

So thats how I get inspired to write..

and with you,

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