Ode to a Dirty Old Man

Bukowski
Sat and read poetry
He also sat
When he wrote it
He was never young
Bukowski
 
He hit life hard
Like his father’s beltings
With German efficiency
And the lust
Of a wild Barbarian
Bukowski
 
Not like Hemingway
And his boorish
Macho bullshit
Nor Rumsfeld who
Also stood at his desk
Adding his Neo-Con shekels
 
No
Hank was his own man
He called a fuck a fuck
And a phony a phony
He looked a mess but
His conscience was neat
 
I could be wrong
I didn’t know him
Hell his words only
Gave me a glimpse
But what I saw was
Goodness and honour
 
That beautiful ugly man
Filled with raw honesty
Unafraid to bleed
From his guts free
Down but never out
Bukowski