Bukowski is dead and I don’t drink anymore
Bukowski is dead and I don’t drink anymore. What else now?
The bad literature is over inside of me and Art has also come to an end.
Where are my utopias? My world, non existing, and I didn’t know it.
Would I rather live in a dream? Bukowski is dead inside of me.
Meanwhile Mister Pacman is doing his job pressing computer keys inside the windowless office room.
He comes from nowhere — everywhere. He wins.
How do I miss the poor immigrant spilling his ink with a bottle of Irish brandy on his other hand. Bukowski is dead and I don’t know for how long the world has ended.
The bad literature is gone. The good taste has gone too.
The Marble has turned into plastic and the plastic into technology.
And I must go on. Despite everything. Go on and … on. Because I keep going on.