Reading Bukowski

Reading Bukowski
makes me think,
about him, like him;
drink like him, too.

I hear the deaf composer
ringing in my ears,
as I stumble through the darkness,
wondering why I’m here,
why I write.

I am in the toilet,
full, bladder and mind;
a single hair falls,
past the golden stream,
resting on the porcelain banks
of the river piss.
I sway slightly left
and then to the right,
staring into the abyss,
mesmerized by the sight:
a jet-black pube
clinging to the white
in the shape of a question mark: ?