Arguing with Bukowski


Nothing good ever occurs to me at four a.m.

Bukowski sits in the corner, smoking, mocking me.

“You’ve never been ugly and it makes you trite.”

“Fuck you Bukowski.  Just because you’re mean and ugly, you think that makes you deep?”

He does a hand gesture that implies, “possibly”.

There is a cat sleeping on my chest.

She adds to the heaviness I already felt.

She lets out a silent stinky fart.

The stench is another thick layer of blanket.

“Now you smell ugly,”  Bukowski says from his corner and takes a drag.

“It was the cat.”

“Of course.”

“I couldn’t fart like that even if I tried.”

“Maybe you should try harder.”

“You are a vile and disgusting human being, but I wish you would love me.”

“Do you really want someone else sitting on your chest and farting?”

No. Not really.




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