"They say that
nothing is wasted
it all is"
"Dark night poem" By Henry Charles Bukowski
So, the night gets here and all of them sit down. They look, the ponder and enjoy their fancy whiskey,
I tightly hold on to my empty jar of almonds and my bottle full of half written poems.
I don't do poetry well.
The night gets here as my lights get dim and silent,
the tide calls me out and I remember my old friends living abroad,
drinking, smoking, working, fucking, sleeping and wondering about the good old days.
The night got here just now and I did not, always busy daydreaming in front of the crowd,
clinching my jaw at every glimpse of your skin and chugging down yet another Jameson shot,
broken, free, dirty and smiling at the songs my parents used to dance.
The sun coming up and I'm as scrambled as those runny eggs on my plate,
the dog barks at the morning as I howl to your absence,
My books kneel at our loneliness while Bukow pisses on my coffee,
I put my clothes on, punch the wall and let in all that madness there is to offer.
The night comes back again and I open my arms to her whorish ways.
To take it all in. Once more.
We be ready. Sometimes.