Bukowski's Muse

Yes, I admit
my work is never posh 
I've never liked fancy poetry 
I don’t need a vocabulary of big words, because
sending my reader to a dictionary simply isn’t my style

I prefer to make them cringe
and blush
that is indeed where the richness truly comes from is it not?

pure honesty of who and what has just been fucked
prostitutes and dogs galore?

even one great poem
that gets the reader thinking, thinking about the magnificent 
and of course extremely ugly imagery
and emotion from each un poised line 

waiting anxiously for the next 
and in some very rare cases
the reader becomes envious

because isn’t that what poetry is?
and finally… the last line 
that always gives us the satisfaction of impact?

Bukowski admitted
that his very best friends and finest company to keep
were Bach and Mozart

and the only true reason he loved them
was because, they were already dead

so maybe, just maybe, right now
they are all together somewhere 
composing a delightful masterpiece?

whilst I, his muse...

am living very happily in limbo?