Fledgling Bukowskis abound in poetryland
drawn to open mics
like tattered, unemployed DJs
ranting their ravings
to audiences of poeteers
their hard times
their drunken debaucheries
their fornicability
the extent of their twenty-odd years,
sputtering and splattering
on and on
onto their Timberlands
onto their Kerouacian flannel
onto their denim overtures
painstakingly frayed and weathered
by The Gap
transporting themselves
and their gaggle
across blanched, pancake terrains
to the echo-chambered
Coney Island of the mindless
reverberating with pre-ponderings like
How many belches
can be crammed into the lines
I'm drunk
Under the bridge...?
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| Arthur Rimbaud |