Anarchy

Who is bathing in yellow street light,
drinking alcoholic juice from a plastic bottle?
No one who shaves daily.
No one who eats fucking yogurt for breakfast.
No one who bathes in water.

Nearly forty now?
Is someone keeping count?
Come from nothing go to nothing.
Nothing comes from nothing,
and in the middle, it's mostly cold, vomit, sweat and dog hair.

Is anarchy a god, or a crippled whore?
If the gears of society stopped tomorrow,
and the fat man quit spitting out crumbs,
would you curl up and die?
Or would you get nutrients chewing rocks and dirt?

Bukowski's Sun

I've been singing in public,
and drinking on weekdays.

Now weeping to love songs,
by melancholy poets.

Now turning th'other cheek,
and punching in noses.

Eschewing self pity,
I'm standing dumb, and ill-composed.

Bukowski's sun must be raging again
because I'm rending my clothes.