My ivory tower creaks and moans

Sitting in a chair given to me freely

All I wish is for a taste of Cuban freedom

I have been told I am a sexist, like Fritzl

Like him I have a first name

Unlike him my moustache is a peacock

It flutters relentlessly

I ponder cats and dogs, the creaking escalates

I am twenty-five, soon twenty-six

And considered good at what I do, by some

In reality I am a fucked up poet

Who will never come to terms with my shortcomings

Despite how good my adjectives

Despite how many girls I sleep with

Spite, deified

The sad truth of existence, this life of never-ending work

Truth always out of grasp, just

Alone with words, meaningless except for what some breathe into them

All I wish for is honesty

Real people with genuine genius

Flowing through me, invigorating

Images dancing with what some would call life

I would call cultural harassment

Months spent in this newly adopted city of mine

Carrying words on buses

Carrying bruises up stairs

Three lost lovers and one pair of shoes, puked upon

Searching for that perfect muse

Madly, like witchcraft

Some would call me charming

Reality just has a way of making my lies look true

I am the sly fox wannabe

The young amateur chasing, crazily

I've never known when to quit

It won't end 'til it ends

It's all crazy

Random cobblers living on spare change

Wishing for grass that is never greener

Always the same faces on the same buses, worn

I still get random erections at inappropriate times

I play them off like rain

Maybe I should have become a politician

Let the middleclass decide, paupers and poets be damned!

Musicians make more money and they still complain

What chance, then, do I have?

Hipsters, children of an un-revolution

The wonder of mediocrity combined with a fathers paycheck

The miracle of unrequited boredom

Let us dismiss all that bourgeoisie nonsense

Dismiss the lies of a lesser life

Embrace the fallacies, the hypocrisy

The truth that we are grander than our shortcomings

Despite the ludicrous amount of said failures

Instead, sing

Sing of sex, of liquor

On the road, Howl

You see what I did there?

Zing!

Bukowski would puke with pride and joy!

Shake your peacock! Ruffle leather!

It is all alive within us tonight, comrades

Andy Kaufman is yelling my name from the borders of limbo

Faking death is never the solution

But neither is faking life!