Chasing The Trains Poem by Bukowski's Ghost

It’s not a long walk
Just down the cobbled pass and
Then you hook a left and hey –
Little enclave
Chasing the trains.

Never even caught much of a glimpse of one
Except ghosted –
Far off down the pig iron tracks
And that after culminations
A visit to a guy who said he could read minds
Know lives – disassemble jigsaws
Whose pieces were shapeless – void of edges and just stuck

How do you pull apart the infinite?
How do you separate you from yourself?
It’s all cursed.
Leaden and gunmetal grey.

Chasing the trains down to the bottom of a bottle
Never found one but always found
The need to drink another day away
Another train away
Another journey you refuse to make.

Forsaking all others I give my life to the terminal lull
To the sanctity of refusing to care
Of being disinterested in dreams
Or dreaming of being disinterested
Can’t tell which
No way of knowing.