I'm so attracted
To this
Neobohemian counterculturistic
Individualist
Type of writing
So hard and mean and true
the Man could never understand
That this trembles beneath the skin
of the youth

I'm in love with Bukowski
With darkly lit Los Angeles rooms
And
Hookers from the second floor.

Days filled with cigarette binges and
This sense of
self-destructive hyper-empathy
For the lost and the cold and the sick
Because you too are lost and cold and
Sick.

So sick that you can only
Write.
Purging yourself onto blank
Sheets of paper
While causing permanent damage
To your kidneys and lungs and
Liver.

I lust for Ginsberg and his
1950's dystopian paradise of
Marijuana and promiscuity
A cesspool
For creative thought.

I'm attracted to the raw and the
spontaneous
Yet somewhat packaged
And premeditated
those
Who march into the fire just
To write about the burn