Well mr bukowski,  looks books and deadbeat hotel accommodation,  looks like you got a bit more of your literature desolate interpretation . Raising bile over a sink while taking down your own dictation.  Soiled bed sheets , a hung out writers perspiration.  Drip fed camera eyes taking it all in , the day to day , there  daily sins

I reach out from the waters distilled
A preacher just shot me
My innereds aint thrilled
I put out my hand and reach for my lord
Two 45 bullets
Then he was gone.
Now the pain a feel its working real deep, am bleeding so bad am eternally leaked. I look up above the sun is real low,  i say my fairwells and pleasantly go

Well i dont hear the blackbird anymore
She aint speaking to Charlie no more
The bus has left,the poem now bereft, still nirvana.
Featherless

Love is a strange old thing , I've loved , gave love , had love, accepted love , and thrown it away,  
Hate on the other hand has never come easy , I've tried to hate , but it's not really in me,  I've probably been hated , although I've never really felt it .
Love has always been my over active factor , hate was only ever a minor distraction x

The dreams I have are very rarely shared , as there more that often gone
Before I am fully aware,  
But if your lucky and write one down , a door can open or be slightly ajar, scare you , tear you , open up old scars.
The so called mad ones , the your having a laugh ones , teasing your endorphins,  never last ,
So dream and let it all in , our beautiful brain ,  my enemy,  my friend the maker of cranial scenesThe dreams I have are very rarely shared , as there more that often gone
Before I am fully aware,  
But if your lucky and write one down , a door can open or be slightly ajar, scare you , tear you , open up old scars.
The so called mad ones , the your having a laugh ones , teasing your endorphins,  never last ,
So dream and let it all in , our beautiful brain ,  my enemy,  my friend the maker of cranial scenes