Friday, 15 July 2011

Bukowski

If a child could write,
Bukowski.

If innocence,
tarred black,
glistened white
beneath the moon,
Bukowski.

If a child's words
were knives
and it
spat
at the womb,

Bukowski.
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1 comment:

  1. The Sock15 July 2011 at 20:05

    I imagine this was not the intended effect, but I read this aloud and sang it to the tune of 'That's Amore.' I apologise.

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