what is this poet without a world
who spins madness in a vacuum
like a painter spitting paint into the sea
waiting for the waves to bring beauty
instead of watching it wash it all away?

he is Bukowski in a drunken rage
living full and warm in a palace in the sky –
no one and nothing to beat bloody
but the latest satin pillow beneath his head;
he is Jeremiah exchanging tirades for tears,
the empty revolution of a rebel without a cause,
just a bystander bent in paralysis
screaming in an empty room

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