Charles Bukowski has the word
DEMOCRACY
printed on his forehead.
Damn you.
He beckons forth and I
walk through his poem.
His words taste like stale cheese.
The world then presents
an act of acumenical jest.
It did not meow.
It roared.
A flaming lion
galloping down a
frosted hillside.
Charles wields his
ruby hilt and unsheathes
a 90-foot dagger.
"Pussy!" he screams.
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