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Bukowski
Bottle(s)
of wine
and
three hours of
sweaty
sleep
to
the wind,
I
awake prematurely
to
the sound
of
the cat’s meow.
Find
myself
(still
half drunk)
thinking
of
Bukowski
and
the hangover
verse
of yesteryear.
I,
myself
find
it difficult
to
write these words
(hold
this pen)
while
the
cyanide
stirs
inside.