Don't Read Bukowski

 
‘Don’t read Bukowski,’ he told me.
‘He’ll get under your skin.
And if you’re not ready to spend most of your time in hell,
Don’t read Bukowski.’
‘I won’t,’ I said.
I didn’t even know who Bukowski was
Until he pulled out a paperback and pushed it my way.

It’d gone eleven and he’d been my best friend
For the last half hour.
He slurred a bit but was still drinking.
He said his name was Mick,
And his mates, he let me know,
Were in the kebab shop next door.

‘If you’re not ready to drink like a pro,’ he hissed,
His finger drilling holes into the bar,
‘And fight in the alleys
‘And sleep with the crazy women,
And write and write until you get it right …
Don’t read Bukowski.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, and shoved the paperback right back at him.

Then he pulled out a notebook with pages of scribble
And offered to read me some.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve a bus to catch,’
And left him clinging to the bar.

Outside, with the rain just starting,
I looked through the kebab shop window and saw it empty.
I saw the owner wiping the counter with a filthy cloth.  
I saw defeat written all over his shish-meat face.
I saw his baggy-white apron splattered with fast food fat.
I saw his empty-till eyes just begging me to come in
And save him from everything that was bad in the world,
But we both knew it was too late for that.

I bent my head down,
Pulled my shoulders in,
And headed for home.