The Bard of Hollywood
By Marcus D. Niski
He was a tough motherfucker
at least he’d like to have
us think that he was.
Everyday he’d get up
And start drinking and writing
Writing and drinking.
Yet under that
beer barrel chest
lay the heart of a lion,
a heart of gold
He gave us his best stuff
Fresh from the suburbs, the factories
the pool halls, the wastelands, the racetracks, the detritus
of urban life.
He never gave up
and never
gave in until
he gave his last
which as good as his best
He never understood
the human condition
because he was always striving.
‘He didn’t think much of them’
The Humans that is.
One of the most acute observers,
He laid his soul bare
And he told of the blood, the puss
the stink, the shit, the beauty, the horror
and the mundanity of life.
He lived life
To its fullest
despite his own queer
deviations.
Bukowski
was a one-shot deal
An original even if it’s a clique
To suggest it.
His writing lives on
In eternity
To grace us with its realness,
Its sorrows
And its beauty.
[MN] 15 January 2020
Dedicated to Charles Bukowski (1920–1994) – one of my great literary heroes.
Naked Cities Journal 
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