my critics

first it was:
you’re always writing poems about
drinking and whores and
ugly things.

now it is:
you’re writing an awful lot
of poems
about
death.

next it will
be:   the son of a bitch is
dead, he never could write
anyhow.

but 19 whores will weep
into their
wine
and
the only thing
left to read
will be
The National
Enquirer.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1986
Source
Original manuscript