oh holy poetic father
your long skinny soul
scrawled across the backs
of thousands of naked spines
and how each drop
of battery acid
dripped from the dots
in the eyes
and the holy crosses
across the t’s
that hung suspended in time
to reach out like
hands with holes
just to barfight my liver
just to curbstomp my stomach
into submission
has helped me sift through
the madness for the word, the
line, the way

but here we are
at the end of the way
and the bottle wasn’t bottomless
i’ve seen the bottle
dropped off the building
and smashing against reality
a fist of misogyny
an inability to step away
from the drunken typewriter
to never grow
(as did the flowers you loathed)

there are two many great poets
who pot shot the page nightly
but never stepped out
of the square ring
to see the round earth desperate
for a pair of rugged hands
to build the cities they dreamed up

in their dreams unrealized
unrealized dreams are the worst nightmares
and bu kowski
sweet devil bukowski
you are the worst nightmare

the victim flower that cursed the fiery sun
for trying to keep him alive



Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

6 thoughts on “BUKOWSKI AGAIN”

      1. I found it thought provoking. I had to reread it and i noticed i missed some details in my 1st read. My understanding of the poem is primarily about Unfulfilled dreams/talent. Quite a few literary devices.

      2. I was trying to say that bukowski had a lot to offer me but there’s a certain point where I have to escape from the misogyny and the alcoholism he represents. Kind of that he put himself on the wrong side of history. That if he had faced these demons in himself he could have been so much more.

  1. Hmmm….. it feels like a piece we would have discected in school.
    The last verse about unfilled dreams. So i thought that this ‘person’ is struggling with this demon whichmis holding him back from actualizing his dreams

  2. “The Dead Flowers of Myself”

    bulls strut in pinwheel glory
    rockets stun the sky
    but I don’t know
    quite what to make
    of the dead flowers
    of myself,
    whether to dump them
    out of the bowl
    press them between
    these blank pages
    and go on;
    well, all grief comes down
    to hard death
    and weeping finally ends.
    thank the God
    who made

    Hank (1962)

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