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To The Whore Who Took My Poems

 some say we should keep personal remorse from the 
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty but not my poems: I'm not Shakespeare but sometime simply there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise; there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards down to the last bomb, but as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets but not so very much poetry.

Poem by Charles Bukowski
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