What The F... Bukowski

Bukowski...what the f...
are you doing in my dreams again?
I'm not a flaming redhead
with hair down to "there"
or  a longer-legged texan filly
for you to ride into
your dusty drunken cowboy sunset...

(neither do I smoke before or after sex...)

and you can bet your sweet ass,
I'm not gonna wash your dirty dishes,
or your god-damned overflowing toilet...

but O how your poetry does oblige,
so merciless and pure,
the fury of angels as they
fold their wings in for the night...
brands me with the rage
of a white-hot iron,

the scourge of unwashed
unsung
exhausted sinners...

hey, where ya going Bukowski?

I was only dreaming.

I can't keep getting off like this.