Poetry Turnst(y)le: An exceptionally lovely Bukowski

the birds are on fire
now
out there
and I walk across the room
and hold back the shade
and they are out there now
burning at
5:05 a.m. – darkness lifting like a
horse falling through sand. well,
I’ve got a blazer of whiskey left and
there are enough stretchers to carry the dead
but

not enough water to save the burning
birds: and they are telling me now:
FLAME!        FLAME!
FLAME!

as old trains move through the
desert
as the whores sleep with the job
done
as the schoolboys dream of labour-less
love
the birds BURN and
die before me –
they
fly away done
leaving the grass for what’s left of the
worms         what’s left of the worms
what’s left of them
for what’s left of me:
old tin song with lunatic tears:

which
is nothing new
except it’s different now
feeling so bad
they used to call it the blues
but it’s not so bad
whatever you call it
because at this time of light
say 5:36 a.m.
I still have a little whiskey left and
therefore a
chance.

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