RIP

I don’t like Bukowski

But I still read him.

And I stick flowers

into the middle of his poems

and lie

that this is my way of

softening his words.

Flowers for each time there’s

“thighs, buns, legs,

slit, wench,

suck, tit.”

But the truth is that

I’m placing the flowers there

‘cause

he’s dead.

And his words

are dying too.