For God's Sake, Don't Read Bukowski
You'll get depressed.
For God's sake, don't read Bukowski.
You'll start smoking, become an alcoholic, think
ham sandwiches are good conversation.
You might say, 'Fuck you,' to your neighbor
or start slamming doors in salesmen's faces.
You'll ruin occasions by showing up in
your bathrobe and house slippers
with a glass of whiskey in your hand.
You'll get into a drunken fistfight or worse:
you'll get depressed.
There's no circumstantial evidence
to support these outrageous claims but
I know from hands-on experience that,
if you read Bukowski,
you'll get depressed.
When you're depressed, you might
read more Bukowski.
If you read enough Bukowski,
you might start thinking you're a poet.
That's bad stuff.
You'll think if he could do it then
you can most certainly do it
and you'll try to write snapshots
in unilateral verse.
You might go pillaging paperbacks
and upending thesauruses
looking for the right words and
a dose of the right stuff.
You might stop caring.
You could become a Nihilist.
You could throw a typewriter through a window or
have a contentious series of very bad encounters
and worse relationships or you might take
matters into your own hands,
cut your hair,
and change your name.
God forbid you read Bukowski.
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