Main Street Poets

Chuck Bukowski

Chuck Bukowski









Main Street Poet’s


Our stories are told today by

young and old Barflies, how

we bloodied our knuckles

and blackened our eyes in

back alley slug outs, behind

puke decorated seedy bars

on Main Street.


Now pour us both another

cheap shot of whiskey will

you please and sit back and

relax, while we spin our tales

of woe and charm all the

whores squatting, with cracks

on squeaky old vinyl covered

smoky bar-stools.


These luscious beauties of the

night are our only companions,

sharing our lice and like

slithering cockroaches’wanting

their fix we are their delight.


We harbor our roach infested

shabby room and sip stale

whiskey and beer, passing

sexually transmitted, we

don’t give a care, it’s only

the two of us lost in despair.


The evening’s yet young, but

we are old dog’s street wise

and full of fun tricks,

tormented by lies and deceit

we are always on the run.


Working where and when we

can to pay the man our bar tab

and rent on demand, week

after week, money earned,

spent and drained, hopeless

we are a pair who don’t care

about living or dying on the

street called Main.


Just give us your spare change

we’re on our last dime, we’ll

favor you with a rhyme two

or three to make your head

spin, let us bend your ear,

so please lend us your time

its money well spent.


A fag will do if your broke,

cause it’s often better to kill

us with your kindness and

smokes in place of cash, for

poet’s we need our fix and

smokes are our dope to help

us cope through our late

nights, we stroke each

chosen word we wrote.


Under dimly lit rooms sparking

our wish to scribble in vain

our insane mundane on crumpled

up paper, filling baskets we spill

over with writings, they claim

our mark of blood spilled efforts

from two lost soul poets on Main.


So call us what you will our ink

has faded, at last our words are

shouted for future generations of

lost barflies, while editors beat

us up reviews, with disdain our

writings from the streets of Main.


We will be remembered by all

barflies as two Poets, without shame,

who thrived and died, leaving their

names in every city on a street

called Main.

A poem dedicated to Chuck Bukowski and all barflies who spent lots of time slugging it out on streets called Main.


© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.




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