Bukowski

 I like

crazy expensive womenand cheap bad wine

that's what I'd write

if I were Bukowski

but I'm not

Bukowski

I´m not wrapped in

a torn white piece of paper

stained by fresh ink and dry blood

and sour red wine

sleeping half naked and drunk

under a dark blue starry sky

I'm not the poet of freedom

I'm not the god of LA

I'm not the whore

he saw in every corner

and in every poem

I'm not Bukowski

and yet here I am

talking about you

Charles ol' chap and your

crazy expensive women

and my cheap bad wine