Bukowski et alia

Why do drunks endear us
With there odes to death?
Shining on feelings consumed
Grinning, smoke hanging breath
Like Superbolides hurling to earth.

Acceptable suicides these, the frail
With a dearth of near misses,
An intimacy with somnolent musings,
From which they regal you stories
and picture poems sincerely.

Mortal fools that look beneath,
Seeing relief in passion numbed;
instead of television bathed!
Living mostly at being a bum,
as the only useful hiding place.

They teeter on the edge of our
meaninglessness and fear, looking
Into the dark places with
inebriated equanimity's
and noctilucent hang overs.

Shining twice as bright,
After a half gone case of beer!
Switching between ranting reality
Or critical ribald rhymes;
We still feel them Dear!