This noise, whirring,
alerts me to silence.
The others seem to be giving me brain cancer.
These hero’s.
They just go on and on these hero’s.
They tell you they’ve been to jail,
out on probation,
I feel sick and was scared before bed.
I drank, I might now again.
This consideration of paper.
Being drunk makes you write,
that is sad,
that is alarming.
That is Bukowski and his udder’s.


Author: leeethomas

Visual Artist, musician and writer from Australia. Interested in Love and the Mind.

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