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Jul 14, 2017
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Self Imposed Limits
I want to be a Bukowski bandit
surreptitiously purloining
his immediacy and gruff
I want to sit in my room
gloating, "yeah!, I've got them fooled",
as I glare at ink stained fingers
from a monstrously old typewriter
while punching out forgeries as clever as "Bluebird"
wondrous words
rolling easy,
ordinary as those in a comic book
or a weekly tabloid.
yet, strung coolly as polished pearls
while still able to singe the heart stings
of the hardest of men.
even if hell-bent on pulling this off,
(to say nothing of my lack of talent and compunction)
I won't do it.
I can't.
it would be sacrilege.
About This Poem
Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft
Comments
weirdelf
8 years ago
You could, you know,
but it takes years of serious self-harm and devotion. There's a knack to it.