"create a poem in the style of charles bukowski about the difficulty of removing skid marks from your underwear"
"Here's an original poem that captures some of the rough-edged, plainspoken, barroom realism often associated with Bukowski, without reproducing any specific work:"
From Skid Row to Skid Mark
the underwear sat in the sink
like it had survived a small war.
I stared at it
with the same expression
I once reserved for overdue rent,
broken mufflers,
and women who said
"we need to talk."
the stain had settled in.
not dramatic,
not heroic.
just stubborn.
a brown signature
from a moment of poor judgment
and excessive confidence.
I attacked it with soap.
nothing.
hot water.
nothing.
some chemical promising
mountain freshness
and a new beginning.
the stain remained,
unmoved,
like a landlord listening to excuses.
outside, the city kept going.
cars passed.
dogs barked.
somewhere a man was probably
writing a masterpiece.
and there I was,
elbows deep in the sink,
negotiating with a pair of underwear.
people talk about struggle.
they talk about art,
love,
death.
but nobody tells you
how much of life is spent
scrubbing away evidence.
I worked at it another ten minutes.
the stain faded.
not gone.
just older.
like regret.
I hung the underwear to dry.
the battle ended
without victory.
which is how most battles end.
then I opened a beer,
sat by the window,
and watched the sun go down
on another day
of being human.
"Here's an original poem that captures some of the rough-edged, plainspoken, barroom realism often associated with Bukowski, without reproducing any specific work:"
From Skid Row to Skid Mark
the underwear sat in the sink
like it had survived a small war.
I stared at it
with the same expression
I once reserved for overdue rent,
broken mufflers,
and women who said
"we need to talk."
the stain had settled in.
not dramatic,
not heroic.
just stubborn.
a brown signature
from a moment of poor judgment
and excessive confidence.
I attacked it with soap.
nothing.
hot water.
nothing.
some chemical promising
mountain freshness
and a new beginning.
the stain remained,
unmoved,
like a landlord listening to excuses.
outside, the city kept going.
cars passed.
dogs barked.
somewhere a man was probably
writing a masterpiece.
and there I was,
elbows deep in the sink,
negotiating with a pair of underwear.
people talk about struggle.
they talk about art,
love,
death.
but nobody tells you
how much of life is spent
scrubbing away evidence.
I worked at it another ten minutes.
the stain faded.
not gone.
just older.
like regret.
I hung the underwear to dry.
the battle ended
without victory.
which is how most battles end.
then I opened a beer,
sat by the window,
and watched the sun go down
on another day
of being human.
