Will someone please strangle Bukowski
A disgraceful man
not worthy of the name Charles
He farts his syllables
belches his words
vomits his phrases
– his sentences smell
like festering fish
As for his verse
it’s worse.
When did Mewkowski last rhyme?
When did he not spew out his truth
as if it was personal?
If caustic Charlie didn’t drink sour milk
sucked from his Mother Nature
the inhuman race
would have no warlike bastards
inciting us all to spill blood
from eructive orifices.
Pastiching
the barely sane Bukowski
keeps my bad breath moving mindfully
in and out
in and out
through gaps between teeth
filled originally by a dumb dentist
married to his drill
addicted to screwing
holes he amalgamed.
Father, father
who will rid me of this
treacherous gurgitator
sent from that inner being
Steve Jobs
tried to connect with
on his ashram
in smelly feet.
See,
pastiche is the sincerest form of flattery
Will someone please strangle Bukowski?
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 