#1
Old poem. I can't post anything I've written recently. It's not ready.

Bukowski's rendition of Wintering
Was something like his wife lying dark-naked-drunk in the kitchen
Screaming 'HANK! HANK! THE WINE'S RUNNING THIN
AND YOU FAT ASS STILL ISN'T MOVING'
And then it was Bukowski getting mad and steaming drunk
And taking one of the empty bottles of merlot
And glazing it to her mouth
And then she just lay there, Bukowski happier,
Her teeth a mess, just a body with an enamel shattering car crash of ****.

But that was his version
And he was ****ed up sometimes.