Comments on Charles Bukowski's poem 'My Madness'.

Oh Charles!
How alien we are in this alien world!
Flopping around in life's sizzling frying pan,
oft times wishing our heads were resting on the guillotine block,
waiting for the executioner's dull blade to fall,
relieving us all of this tar paper shack syndrome,
plaguing us,
haunting us,
stalking us,
from this waking world,
deep into our midnight dreams.
Oh if poetry might fly us to the haunted moon!
Send us to barren Mars!
Where, like ancient Martians,
we would strut about in thin skins,
armoured by life's shiny exterior,
breathing filtered Martian air,
dreaming filtered Martian dreams,
writing filtered poetry about filtered home.
Filtered masters vying from filtered castles,
deeply betraying us, plundering the very Kingdom.
We stand roused, deeply angered by such dishonest depths.
So it is, in this timeless moment,
remarking as we stumble half-blind through life,
typing lazy lines that surely make sense,
composing exploding prose,
erupting poesy, chimed with errant rhymes,
filtered through this  widening mesh of unsympathetic chaos.
So vast measures of neglected poor chew on stale bread,
drink drops of rancid beer from discarded flattened tins,
like homeless folk, while Czars sip Napoleon brandy,
wandering masses of chaff strewn,
astray and lost in filthy dark alleys,
wanting wheat and bread,
sleeping hungry,
waking parched and thin,
seeking fish and loaves,
craving a helping hand, wishing for friendly smiles,
hoping some ray of enlightenment might lead them safely into tomorrow.
Finally, in such pending dark,
laying bruised and shaven heads down,
hard on a soiled brick of baked red clay,
reposed in ragged soiled clothing,
blanketed under slabs of discarded cardboard,
slumped next to some stinking dumpster,
that thin shield of steeled comfort,
lying fetal, drawn up by their poverty,
stirring confused thoughts into thin soup and stew,
conjuring rich and creamy visions.
"Surely there must be some other fool more foolish than myself."
Statements waking us in the dark of night,
outlined by nagging disturbing rays of street.
Some outraged mugger suddenly raves over me,
Spitting anger, seething hatred from his blood red eyes,
knife blade glinting in a ray of mirrored violence.
Once robbed, laying stiff, oozing blood and courage,
left for dead in that tawdry rubbish lane,
wooden nickels and thin dimes whipped from worn out pockets.
Perhaps we rise again,
pull that filthy collar of worn out coat up around half-deaf ears,
trying to keep out life,
imagining with all one's might,
something beyond that hellish beast.
Growling clarity,
intent is ever clear,
never charity,
with each dawn,
followed into waning day,
nipping at homeless calloused heels.
Oh brother! Why hast thou forsaken me!
What sin have I committed?
What prayer have I not recited?
Why does such a rich world shun me as I beg for mercy?
Such is life I suppose,
for poor and homeless,
all those disadvantaged souls,
still breathing and sleeping,
freedom beyond their reach,
murmuring words and phrases,
fluttering unheard into soiled gutters.
If sun doesn't get up tomorrow,
perhaps I will find atonement,
understand how in my failing,
how all this failure,makes the world go round.
If stars blink out,
one by one,
or two by two,
maybe I'll wake in that impending dark,
think to myself,
"This must be heaven! Mother's womb! Must be that place where I am reborn."
But hark! Which person isn't reborn each time they wake?
Lo! In such adverse darkness?
Who doesn't begin life anew?
Each time they stumble, after every fall?
Picking themselves up,
wiping themselves off,
wondering if they are alive,wandering in some advent dream,
ambling into that ample light of each newly filtered day!
So in my own madness,
beating drums and blowing whistles,
witnessing the falling sky,
singing cradle songs while the crippled earth weeps and cries,
I strip myself bare,
dance naked with erotic Venus.
Surrounded by filaments of egomania,
illuminated by silver shards of feral light,
wrapped by reflections from the laughing moon,
Venus strokes my aching soul.
Rumplestiltskin arm in arm with my madness,
clapping wildly, entranced by this lunatic feat,
heralded by licks from dancing flames,
magically spinning chaff and straw,
into golden baskets, 
in hopes of fish and loaves.