How To Write A Poem Like Charles Bukowski, Or HAHAHAHA! SUCKERS!!!

First take your prostitute,        
one that's been around for a while,        
lacking a few teeth, perhaps,        
but having a heart of gold.        
         
A sack, too, will be useful.        
         
Next you'll need a handful of sores,        
and if they're red and weeping        
so much the better:        
it fits the objective correlative.        
         
Then you'll need a bluebird,        
which will live in your chest        
and stick its head out your arse,        
singing: 'I love me! I'm great!'        
         
         
["Wait a minute! This isn't poetry,       
it's prose, chopped up        
and put on the page        
to make it seem like a poem."        
         
"I must confess you're right, dear reader,        
but that's what Charlie did.          
He wrote prose, and bad prose at that.        
This is a satirical poem."        
         
"Ah! I see.          
Well, to stop me dying of boredom,          
could you liven up the last part of it, please,        
with a bit of rhythm and perhaps a rhyme?"        
         
"Righty ho, dear reader,        
I'll see what I can do.        
Thanks for stopping by,        
and enjoy the rest of your day."]        
         
         
Another ingredient seems to be        
grinding poverty and misery        
and he glories in it like a pig in shit,        
without ever being a real part of it,        
         
without ever wanting to battle it,          
to alter it, which after all          
is the point of it – isn't it? –        
but instead of which he exploits it        
         
then takes that sack        
I mentioned earlier,        
fills it with cash,        
and laughs —        
all the way to the bank.        
         
         
["Will that do, dear reader?"]        
      
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One For TS, Ezra And The Buk  
   
Pound and Eliot, I despise!  
That poison pair I'd love to kick!  
They ruined poetry for years!  
The gruesome twosome make me sick!  
   
The Waste Land's rubbish, utter tripe!  
The Cantos? Well, they're even worse!  
I don't think I have ever read  
a bigger load of awful verse!  
   
Oh, wait a minute! Yes, I have!  
That time I had such rotten luck  
to pick up – most unfortunately! –  
and read a Charles Bukowski book.  
   
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