Every poet thinks they’re underground,
unacknowledged, whitewashed from the canon,
much like the pauper’s grave that holds Blake’s bones

is metres from the headstone of John Bunyan.
The worst kind are the massed Bukowski clones,
the myth of the hard drinking, common man,

the unpretentious, unrefined unknown
that bags the big money publishing deal,
who sells out theatres in every town

and grows fat on his European sales.
“I’m a poet but I’m not a pussy”
is all their poems ever seem to tell

about the writer, though not quite that pithy,
for that would require edits…second drafts…
Your poem ain’t a beer shit, it’s just pissy

and noone wants to suffer for your art.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 14, 2012 @ 10:19:54

    Fuck…I’ll never be able to read Bukuwski again.


  2. Niall O'Sullivan
    Jul 14, 2012 @ 12:25:49

    Ha ha! To be fair, the poem takes issue with the lazy imitators rather than the great man himself.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,501 other followers

%d bloggers like this: