Charles Bukowski's Alter Ego

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Chinaski says Fuck you!
Fuck you, Charles! and fuck
our dirty dish rag clothes
10 years ago in South Central

when Father's dirty verbs
made Mother fry more eggs for him,
and we just there with our apple,
splotchy red as we were then.

It's enough to drive a man-boy to drink
at ten o'clock in the morning,
enough to make a man-boy think

there should be a deus ex machina,
that library love child we found,
to take us to Olympia

but left us there to grow up hungry
to make up chillbane words with wine
next to the soup in the kitchen
with finally a strangled chicken in it.
Last edited by greenmountaineer : 08-18-2015 at 09:48 AM.

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