Bukowski Wannabes

Bukowski wannabes 

dribbling over a typewriter

because it doesn’t 

have spellcheck,

spuriously wasting 

impeccable words 

that someone 

with actual talent

could purpose,

fake, 

drunkard,

bravado

for authentic effect

whist drinking 0% Becks

ain’t exactly ‘cool’

and tales about 

your dull student halls

don’t measure up

to the grit and shit 

outside your 

University Walls

there’s a difference

between being

dumb and damaged,

one can be managed 

the other will kill you

slowly, 

words ain’t hero’s

they’re villains

they’re prisons 

robbing you of silence

they’re violence 

beating the living 

shit out of you

they’re defiance

you’ve got to see 

them through,

this poem isn’t 

a prom dance,

it’s not ‘of romance’,

it’s a bastard,

a circumstance 

that won’t let me sleep

it suggests what’s beneath,

without spelling it out,

it’s a 12 round bout

fighting it out

to the bitter end