by Richard Cabut

Tony D drinks his pint
And tells me straight:-

Bukowski lives, man.
I saw him the other day.
Shit hair, beer gut, and shiny head
Sure it was him, OK.

Not reincarnated but rehydrated,
As vagrant, beggar, holy hobo.
Tho’ that was always the way
Poems? Punk! Pogo, man, pogo!

The flies circled stumble Buk’s stink
As he hassled a woman hurrying by,
His furry tongue flicking out to lick her face.
Bukowski the fuckhead unwise guy

Staggering. Drooling all the way,
He hadn’t lost his bottle.
He’d had it in his hand all day!
A remodelled role model? A real life debacle!

Here’s to born again Buk and me,
Let’s spit out words like bad beer,
Let’s vomit verse like week old wine,
Let’s shit truth in our pants and sneer, sneer, sneer.

Outside Leytonstone library Buk lurched and lurked,
He’d reserved Tales of Ordinary Madness there, maybe.
I was on the way to Bethnal Green, sent to meditate,
‘Cause my wife thought the crazy one was me!

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