Charles Bukowski — The White Poets Live

the white poets the white poets usually knock quite early and keep knocking and ringing ringing and knocking, even though all the shades are down finally i arise with my hangover figuring such persistency must mean good fortune a prize of some sort, female or monetary "alright, alright" i shout, looking for something to cover my ugly naked body sometimes i must vomit first, then gargle the gargle only makes me vomit again i forget it, go to the door "hello." "you bukowksi?" "yeah, come in." we sit and look at each other he, very vigorous and young latest blooming clothes, all colors and silk face like a weasel "you don't remember me?" he asks "no." "i was here before, you were rather short, you didn't like my poems." "there are plenty of reasons for not liking poems." "try these," he put them on me they were flatter than the paper they were typed upon there wasn't a tick, or a flare, not a sound i've never read less i said, "uh-uh" "you mean you don't like them?" "there's nothing there, it's like a pod of evaporated piss." he took the paper, stood up and walked around "look bukowski, i'll put some broads from malibu on you. broads like you've never seen," "oh yeah baby?" i asked "yeah yeah." he said, and ran out the door his malibu broads were like his poems they never arrived