inspired.

when i’m at work,
i feel like bukowski
sometimes.
instead of his cheap wine
and buckets of beer,
i have my grass,
burning, burning, burning.
instead of caps of mescaline,
only once in a while,
i shock my senses with
acid.
we both have a cigarette
between the lips,
to keep the brain breathing
amidst those damn people,
always.
and our nights,
oh the nights!
smoke drifting the air
and the fingers rush to
write.
always have to be quick
not to lose the thought.
but he’ll fuck a fury,
and fuck them all.
me, only life seems to want
to lay me. no.
to fuck me.
sometimes.