Bukowski, or: Runoff

The next line is the worst garbage
He snorts this
Curse nursing it for the worse as
Synapses across lobes stretch for one
Another crackling in the charge
Of words; bursting thoughts 
Powder trail across dots
As shot through two barrels 
He's being held
Over one bound by metal heaving
Retching 
Wretched bromide
He snorts another; floating
Bukowski's gloating
Delivering his letters between
Cigarettes and
The bare legs of onehundreddollar whores 
Lines done while drinking beers
Never got the idea he was a poet
Never snorted 
Sewage nor spewed it 
Out, down 
To earth himself 
Broken brilliant in the rough 

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