a lame pastiche for bukowski

what is left to say?
i am here
with my cigarettes
the few thousand songs on my playlist
all sound alike
the nights have grown dark
as they always do
in late october
the beers I drink
all taste stale
all the men
disappear before dawn
and for that I am grateful
what is left to say
if not to tell of the days
when all is still
my small, smoke stenching room
a haven, the eye of a storm
that I keep waiting
that never comes
and on this night I see
that life is not hard
at all
life is like a half-limb penis
of a lover
inside a tugging hand
caressing through the dark
caving
into the slumber
of a life
never truly lived.