Charles Bukowski – Kevin Trent Boswell

the work of bukowski
has a way of
keeping me alive

the way he tells
his stories of suffering
through poverty and heartbreak,
doldrums and rages,
starved, psychic bleeding
words and whiskey
and cigarettes and anything else
anything to dull the pain
of being in this
idiotic hellscape

dealing with the
stupidity of
people

it brings a certain
grace, a poise,
almost a
kind of dignity
to my own
world

reading his poems
keeps me halfway sane,
keeps me
alive

and god,
how i hate him
for that

what the fuck,
chuck?

what the fuck
did i ever do
to you?