[ Was drinking bitter alcoholism 'n readin' Bukowski; his poem ] [ "two drunks" made me think of you-- so I wrote this. ] You know, the words-- the lines across the contrasted darkness of my mind-- haven't sought much light lately. Gripped in my misery and misfortune; motherfucker, has Set killed Isis and ripped out both your eyes? I miss the light they effused 'pon dreary self-loathing and my darkness. You inspired me to develop style, you-- one of Hollywood's undiscovered poets, craving rockstar fame while blessed with what I considered a literary fortune. Did a groupie silence you with her ravenous cunt in honor of vampires forgetting that you howled savage with the wolves? Perhaps this stomping ground has, in your eyes, evolved into something beneath you & your prescriptive injections of vulgar abandon and anarchy? Then again, the blood available isn't much for the spilling these days, is it old friend? I wonder if the question will ever know your comic answer. And I? Just stewing in the juices of life, developing a sort of mental flavor-- so far it has been tasting quite bitter. As for adding some sweety? That tart apparently exists only within the confines of my deranged, twilight brainsky. Perhaps I'll get better with the alchemy and conjure her up from the depths of Hell. But for now, I'd settle for the light from thy eye-- whether it be of the sun or the sober paleness of the moon.