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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of a son
