Almas Desesperadas!

The poseur likes Bukowski; for he/she is a pretencioso, one who poses as punk but in secret has never crawled over shit to find a bed to live in with the bed bugs eating you, fucking you while you sleep; and you can’t enter into his World unless you have swum in his sewer and laughed in his madness while all the while your arms stroke the stench of your own time, and you can never know what his world is like unless you drink the cheapest cardboard wine among the caravanserai  of ex-cons by Tarrango Road  morning, day, and night, and your body feels and weighs a ton of pain as if your carrying that mountain on your back and  if you haven’t drank in bars where the floors are concert stained with blood and vomit, and you think your so cool because you ‘identify’ as if you know him but in the end your just another number trying ever so hard to be hip and you know when your standing in the shower at night that the water dripping on your skin is your own personal sewer like your own personal Jesus exposing your wound of fakes , and as you pass a homeless man who’s lived on the streets day in , day out for a thousand years  you look at him and think ‘what a desperate sad thing he is’, but  in the end life is not a Walt Disney Film to quote the Buk, but more a merry- go- round of desperate souls trying their best to feel alive.

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