Birth of Genius

It should be a god damned national holiday. The bureaucrats surely wouldn't understand. 91 years ago today Hank Bukowski was spit into this world, and I am thankful for it. I am drinking cheap beer and day dreaming about my own life as an avant garde crude manipulator of line, verse, idea, philosophy. One thing Bukowski said that will always produce veins in my consciousness was,  " I'm the hero of my own shit" Exactly what I should strive for, because in my mind I am the hero, never the villain. I made mistakes but most heroes do. If I had more money in the wallet or in the bank than negative I would but bottles of cheap red wine and brandy to give to the homeless and down people of my city. I have no place in the world, but that is ok because Hank didn't either. Cheers.

Carrion's Joy

The dead leave scars on the brain of the city
Through the fog and the rain and the traffic
A thousand unseen eyes circle the sky
The concrete and windows
The steel and the tar
Can not let us escape the futility of living
The dead bury us with them
We sink into the soft earth
Shame, depression, and guilt escape
Tired lids waiting to be closed
Flitter and still on dry corneas
You can't take the internet to heaven
Blackberry's will not hold your soul
My ipod has no use in my funerary case
Your draining occupation will never make you whole
We dance on the train in shoes to big for our feet
The ground shakes as if it's possesed
By some foreign beat
Kachook dum dum Kachook dum dum
I've worked hard lord!
Kachook dum dum
Oh, I've held on strong!
Kachook dum dum
Aaaaa my baby! Lord, my baby is gone!
kachook dum dum
OooOoo Oh! In this cold world my love
kachook dum dum
yeah, you know you've got to carry on
kachook dum dum
OOOh Iiii know, even when I'm right
kachook dum dum
Every little thing can go wrong

The song fades, the lights dim
After momentary introspection
Thoughts move to another direction
Avoidance, annoyance, clairvoyant ly
I see where this path leads
blah, blah, blah, on and on
two minus one is one
get a little scared and you run

The cold windows don't care where you go
the ghosts follow, they walk, run, or float
they breathe and smell your emotions
they ride on your coattails
they hold on to your heart and your head
every empty bottle
holds the spirit of the dead