Then, look at the last word of each line. Each thought ends on a noun. A thing. Something real that you can sink your teeth into. Each of these — me, world, madness, dimension, things — evokes an image. Evokes a texture, sound, or feeling. You can picture them in your mind, you could describe them to someone else if you needed to.
And here is where Bukowski’s vulnerability comes to its head: he needs you to understand him. He needs you to hear what he has to say. Dismiss it when you’ve reached the end, if you want, but for a few sentences, he has made you do something different. He has made you think not only about him and what he is, but perhaps he has made you think about what and who you are as well.
As tough as he may have appeared, Bukowski needed this connection. With you. He needed you to understand for a moment. And he does not ask this of you — he demands it.