My Empty Life

I am doing less and less
It’s a lifestyle that suits me
I sit around the house and
I feel empty

My partners gone away on holiday
She was glad to see the back of me
And my lethargy

Of course I have a list of jobs to do
That should ensure I receive sexual intercourse upon her return
The washing
The cleaning
The shopping
The banking and
The DVD recording

It’s what makes the world go round
She never fails to remind me

Meanwhile I sit and watch the TV
Drink red wine
And wait patiently for some kind of creative sign
But none comes

Everything is happening in slow motion
Even the cars
Out on the street
Sound exhausted
And the noisy children next door have fallen silent

I think to myself

I have more time on my hands
Than ever before
It should be so much easier
And yet
I seem unable to make progress and I am fundamentally unhappy

The songs I have been working on are not very good
The poems I have written are also bad and they don’t have anything to say
They are pathetic, sad and unlovable

In other words
They are merely a reflection of my empty life

It’s at times like this I think of Bukowski
And how he was a misery
And a bully
A man of cruelty and yet
A man possessed
Of beauty

His work sings to me like no other
And he will always remain
The greatest anti visionary
Which reminds me

Later on I must go to the shop for milk and biscuits.

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