And the finest in art are those who know when not to creat it.
Women have it
In sounds of their pissing,
holding the hairs like peacocks,
in their forgiveness after a bloody sex.
Men have that in their act of conclusions.
Men have that in the way they leave the bars…
All have arts in them, but only few know it.
The transformation is rare and lonely and maddening like a naked bullet…
and you can always see the difference,
Hemingway will always remain an art but Bukowski; the artist.