an open letter to edgy cis white male poets:

i am sorry.

both myself and a colony

of poets

would like to inform you

that you

are not

charles bukowski.

you are not charles bukowski

despite

your

stuttering

line breaks

your feigned debauchery

incessant chronicling

of cock, balls,

piss, shit, and cum

down the backs

of stunningly

tragic doped

up women.

you must be thinking

to yourself

"is this what hank

would do? is this

how hank sees the world?"

we are asking you 

to clean your god damn 

apartment, ditch

that beautiful junkie's ass,

open up your windows

and laze in the sincerity

of the sun.