Charles Bukowski — Competition Live

Competition we live by the harbor now and at night the ships often blow their foghorns she's a light sleeper she will leap up sitting straight up in bed... "DAMN!" "what is it? what is it?" "I thought you farted!" "not that time, dear..." she is a good child; living with me has disfunctioned her nerves. actually I like to save up my farts for the bathtub, those grey bubbles waft up a magic stench farting is much like fucking: you can't do it all the time but when you do there oftentimes comes a feeling of proudness as if your artistry in the act were a rare and precious thing I fart more than I fuck and I fart better than I fuck and I am pleased to be mistaken for a foghorn in the middle of the night.