Charlie.

Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski

 

Four years into the ground

and you were nothing but

dust and bone

yet your words went down

as smoothly as

yesterday’s beer on the nightstand,

 

which for most

isn’t smoothly at all

but for a young woman

intent on drinking dry

every drop of pain

in the world around her

your metallic swill

was worth every cigarette butt

swallowed from the bottom

of that can.

 

Perhaps you tuned in

from beyond

as ghosts spoke

of your death

and your youth,

from your bedroom

and your whiskey,

of your horses

and your whores,

filling the air with

phantom thumping keys

and wafting smoke,

feeling entirely like home.

 

Like dulled mountains.

Like the steel guitar.

Like a dirty warm embrace

you spoke to me,

and suddenly I knew

that while in the

posthumous company

of a drunken misogynist,

smoking mad

fucking filthy

old soul,

 

I was somehow less alone.

 

“Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.” – Bukowski

 

bukowski026

 

Renee Novosel

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2014

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12 thoughts on “Charlie.

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