Poems on Charles Bukowski Seeking Honest Critique

there sits bukowski
frayed at the edges
well thumped
dog eared
tossed around
caressed
held up
with duct tape
among the hide bound
strait jacketed stiffs
crackling with indignation.

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...

You look anxious:
Without feet,
Without a mouth,
Without motive to move you,
Without omission to speak.
Tranquil and easy
Is a slumber for a mind’s eye.
To be ignorant is bliss,
To harbour knowledge is resigned.
I trace your hand
With chapped lips;
Upon them both we both have stains,
As we both readily circle the drain,
We are far more eager than borrowed sticks.
Pull me out,
with clumps of hair,
Just dead cells to be refused-
We are but recycled men;
Trash and treasure reused. ...