I got in the shower
and burned my balls
last Wednesday.
met this painter called Spain,
no, he was a cartoonist,
well, I met him at a party
and everybody got mad at me
because I didn’t know who he was
or what he did.
he was rather a handsome guy
and I guess he was jealous because
I was so ugly.
they told me his name
and he was leaning against the wall
looking handsome, and I said:
hey, Spain, I like that name: Spain.
but I don’t like you. why don’t we step out
in the garden and I’ll kick the shit out of your
ass?
this made the hostess angry
and she walked over and rubbed his pecker
while I went to the crapper
and heaved.
but everybody's angry at me.
Bukowski, he can’t write, he’s had it.
washed-up. look at him drink.
he never used to come to parties.
now he comes to parties and drinks everything
up and insults real talent.
I used to admire him when he cut his wrists
and when he tried to kill himself with
gas. look at him now leering at that 19 year old
girl, and you know he
can’t get it up.
I not only burnt my balls in that shower
last Wednesday, I spun around to get out of the burning
water and burnt my bunghole
too.