Brain going at 100
Miles
Per
Hour
Can ya feel the
Need for
Unadulterated
Shock
Therapy
Power
Dull your pain
Girl
Sweet scent
Burning
Flowers

Open
Range boy
Showering
Your
Dreams on another

Pistol wipped
Creaming
Covered
In
Man made leather

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

The belvidere tar ,was soft , picked at with intent ,
Sour leafs often tasted , but never quite ingested
The sap of the finest dandy , seemingly made for a leak in your bed ,

When elvis died,  my first memory of music pain , his Saturday crap movies set a standard,  it was rock n roll, I am not ashamed,

Then punk rock playing from another room,  my dearest brother, oh **** by the buzzcocks,  a new sonic boom .

Music  from the pistols to the bee gees and Handel,  its makes me what I am ,from the summer of 77 tar stained blue sandals