Bukowski stands centre stage,
basking in the role of rogue poet.

He sips salience (served neat) between gravel voiced missives,
lower class wisdom flicked like smoldering cigarette butts
as rapt faces sit pie-eyed,
his pungent prose,
as indelible to their ears
as the tobacco stains
on his fingertips.

Bleary eyed, waxing boorish
swaying on his barstool
he quips:
Talent is like wine, you know.
A little makes you clever
a lot’ll make you glow
but too much just makes you sick
and eventually
you just **** it all away.