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Click herebroke again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bowl
of weed, I have typed on a dozen to 15 pages of
shit
an old girl
maddened for the flesh of hung men in this
dwindling fright night
lover gone
kid ‘bout going
momma pooped
top-floor blood lust
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my legs
no woman will deal with me
no Oprah Winfrey to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a baby I will die here. One of six
ways, those three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, chest, head
the boys who played my heart with music ...
I promised myself never to write sad girl poems
but this one's funny, you see, irrefutable, be-
cause I've long gone past diddling myself and there's
still shit show left
here at 3 a.m.
I am going to take those sheets from
the dryer
have another toke and
insert
the fresh assault upon Clorox whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
free
like
a pusher.
Like the title reads, "in the style" I'll be damned if I praise him and would likely not have given him head. I think picking apart his work and making it my own is enough. Giving the raving masculinity/misogyny a feminine injection. Good luck with the residuals of your story and I hope a handshake is enough for your new favorite writer. Perhaps a conversation.
but we women should not be imitating disgusting men like Bukowski. I met him years back at the Gold Digger's Bar on Santa Monica blvd. I was little more that 24 at the time. He was half drunk with some pal of his and kept trying to put his hand under my mini skirt. Finally to calm him down I went into that disgusting bathroom in the back to give him a blow job but his cock was so filthy I vomited before he could even get hard. Fuck Charley B. You don't need to be imitating him or blowing him. Sometimes we do stupid things figuring something good will come of it, usually noting cums.