|May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three|
I went to the bar where this punk band was playing.
I think they were called the "Plagiarists."
I moshed, and drank, and drank some more, and drank even more,
until the room was spinning my mind was fading and my words were slurring.
I realized, "Gee, maybe I really am not Bukowski."
I took a taxi home that night
accompanied by this manic depressive female specimen in her 40's
and she grabbed my collar, straddled me and said:
"You are to young to be so bitter! What is with the
bandanna on your head? What are those tattoos supposed to mean?
why is your face so pale, and oh my god! Look! I think he's already dead!
I see you at the bar every Friday and Saturday night with a different
woman on your arm... Why are you killing yourself young man?
Let me save you, I hold the Christ child in between my legs!"
I paid for her ride home. She was very intoxicated.
"I feel safe with you."
Everything was so neat, perfect and conformed
in her perfectly white
little house hold.
She was my little Blondie hair blue eyed Nazi sex slave,
she was a prison I ran away to, to escape this one.
And I was her sweet dream, a deviant turning her
from her standard course, I was the loooove poet
to sweep her off of her feet.
And I failed at this miserably when I revealed that
I was nothing unique. I'm just another over sensitive
alcoholic, drug addicted, miscellaneous who pretends to be
a dirty rock star. Or a famous Poet.
Her love letters to me are my shackles,
And I wrote her a letter today,
explaining that she was a terrible writer.
|RETURN to May 2005|