When thinking and reflecting and with all the death and cancer and a certain liking for punk poetry and my own personal infatuation with Bukowski - I decided to write my own, simple and disease free lines.

They malformed towards the end, as my ideas usually do, and are always in the role of transformation...

From the depths of Baudelaire to the brilliance of a Byron in bloom we jump into the vapid rivers of a self reflective doomed and isolated soul, eager for an early suicide reminiscent of any romantic worth the drool he holds in his mouth.

I let these poems slide for a few years but they nagged at conscience so I decided to upload them...Simple