Charles Bukowskis Alcohol Consumption Through The Year's
bottles clink like keys to hell's doors,
my hands shook before they stilled in gin,
first it was a love affair—
warm whiskey whispers on cold nights,
the booze bloomed,
and I rode the flame like a fool on fire.
years lost, sweat-soaked in bars,
conversations slurred, jobs slipping
through my fingers like sand.
I traded promises for the bottom of a glass,
women for the next cheap thrill—
a barstool my throne,
but the drinks never loved me back.
the mornings were cruel
with the sun stabbing my skull,
and all the friends turned to ghosts,
I was king of my own wreckage,
but the throne was burning,
and still, I drank
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