With old patterns faltering
In the wake of time
Serving him less and less
Desperation creeps
Then slowly sets in
Searching for something
Real to cling to
In a world of illusion
And cheap parlor tricks
Of which he created
And has always dwelled
Better to be
An imaginary somebody
Than a real nobody
His platform
His soapbox
His mission
His salvation
The sum
Of all his
Fear
©2013 jill terry
Jillterry.com
They don’t all float down here, as his mantra would have you believe. Some wrap themselves intentionally, in the dispirited darkness; fighting natures buoyancy that would raise them toward the light. He thrived on being the outcast, for he knew not how to fit; emitted false illusion, so as to sway opinion and perceptions. But had he ever met the Sage, in the abyss which I have faced, he would have fallen to his knees and in prayer he would have begged.
© jillterry
It wasn’t his
Voice
Finally found
After fifty years
Of living
Dead
It was his
Imitation skills
Finely tuned
Honed
Down pat
Poetry, prose
Letters and
Madness
No original
Thought
Merely mimicking
Bukowski’s style
The scruples
Morals
By which he
Lives his
Life
Memorized passages
Dog-eared
Pages
Following
A script
Assuming a
Personal role
Worse than
Any
Fictional whore
Tinkering with
Lives
Pissing on
Souls
Watching emotionless
Counting the
Score
Take it off
The shelf
Read it once
More
Soulless bastard
Thinks he’s
Hank Chinaski
Ⓒjillterry
