A Well-Kept Pint of Burton

I'm in a pub
drinking the beer
that got me writing again.

If it was wine,
with its minute-long aftertaste
flowing from bitter to hop flowers,
it'd be worth a bloody fortune.

But, being beer,
its two pound forty a pint:
which is pretty outrageous
for a pub outside London.

Actually,
this poem's
not about
beer
at all.

I'm thieving from Bukowski,
trying to steal
his honesty,
his "right here, right now" presence,
his oh-so-easy working language
(I wish it was oh-so-easy),

giving something
rather special
from something
pretty ordinary ...

... rather like this beer.

Gawd, he'd hate this;
no anger
so middle class,
and not a hint
of Shostakovitch.