In great verse, terse
Bukowski nibbles gold flakes
from a nugget
“A Song with No End” drums, hums
the electric tune
of joyful soul
what death must drink,
shrinking tessaract planes
to abyssal linearity
to points, to joints
and the great author laments
with eyes closed
to the red painted fully, wholly
upon the grass-man’s lips
upon firm fibre
the infliction carried drunken, sunken
and postured for ego and self
twisted sad song
glitter-lipped fu-wah, tromp tromp, ba da
echo through mutated shell of green
lines in paper
joyful abyssal eyes firm sad lines
thick wine, so brave so true
end end singing
like a coin edge goes round, round
outside stares dipped shoulders
simple-same sin
words from stuffed birds and stereo, unwary
oh la la la means nothing
and kills besides
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