Would that be Bukowski and Sylvia Plath?
Or maybe Hemingway and Virginia Woolfe?
But I’m the orphaned love-child of Bukowski and Plath,
A seed planted in the Bell jar that stood beside the bed
Covered in tangled sheets and sweaty limbs,
Grinding groins and panted meter.
So I guess
we
can’t be them…
because I already am.
