Bukowski had it
the writing shoots from my soul
I don't care about babies or puppies
or rhyming anymore

Give me a fat cigar
and a deep whiskey
and I can write you a sonnet
of ******* and
write you a love poem
I do not mean

I smoke
I drink
I type what comes out
and I'm tired of hearing about tulips and butterflies

If you think you've got it all figured out
but you're working a job you hate
then the only thing you've figured out
is that you don't know what to do

You don't know that life is about living
that money is necessary, but awful
and that truly living is actually about living

Do you thing the trees give half a ****?
do you think that the flowing rivers care about internet speed?
do you think that your facebook friends would show up at your funeral

If only the world would shut down
if the digital, virtual world would stop
I'd grab a number 2 pencil and write
and jab a hole in the brain of modern society

and it would bleed money
it would bleed greed
it would bleed capitalism and success

and it would die
instead of my worn out soul

trying to swim in a sea of useless information
and overload
a sea of virtual *****

and then I would truly live