i can sit here all day and write poetry

about my misfortune.

but who in the hell do i think i am?

surely i am not bukoswki, rotting

away in the disgust of my pigpen

apartment.

i don't have the right

to write

about sorrows and emptiness and

loneliness and despair.

i have friends and i have lovers

and i have everything i want because

i always get what i want.

so

hand me my vodka in my crystal glass

and lay me on my satin sheets

and let the f***ing violins

do their little thing,

cause i've got joy

and i've got glory

and Lord All Mighty

i hope i remember this shit tomorrow.