October 29, 2007
Bukowski’s Dream
The dirty old man dreamed he woke up in a GODDAMN fairytale. Keith Richards was passed out next to him with his pants down at his ankles. The French fag Jean Cocteau could have decorated the place. That’s how creepy it was. There were recliners that looked like giant cats, sculptures and light fixtures it turned out were actually real people, and in this particular kingdom the servants, horses, and the décor in general had a distinct red theme. Everything was painted red. It was like Salvador Dali’s fake description of his meeting with Harpo Marx: “I met Harpo for the first time in his garden. He was naked, crowned with roses, and in the center of a veritable forest of harps (he was surrounded by at least five hundred harps). He was caressing, like a new Leda, a dazzling white swan, and feeding it a statue of the Venus de Milo made of cheese, which he grated against the strings of the nearest harp. An almost springlike breeze drew a curious murmur from the harp forest.” Only, it wasn’t the regular kind of fantasy where Catherine Denueve is the beautiful princess who must disguise herself as the scullion, Donkey Skin, to escape her lecherous father. There wasn’t a fancy old castle, no handsome prince, no donkey that shit jewels, and no fairy godmother who was probably more famous for her role as the Countess Bathory in the movie Daughter’s of Darkness (1971). Bukowski peeled his eyelids apart and looked around the place. It was a disaster. There was nothing but empty beer bottles and cans, empty wine and liquor bottles, and ashtrays piled high with spent butts. He sat up and squinted out the window. He had a bad hangover and the light made him sick. As far as he could figure out he was in a trailer park. Where it was, he wasn’t sure, and to make things worse, he woke up as the FUCKING Decider-in-Crook. He felt sore, but he thought, “You can choose between Nixon, Humphrey or Christ and be fucked anyway you turn.” The important thing was it didn’t change his opinion of William Faulkner or Bill Burroughs. They were still both lousy writers. Everything about the surreal kingdom was a bit off. The Decider had to drop a loaf. He tried to lift himself off the shag carpet. His suit was rumpled. He felt for his inside pocket and found what he was looking for, knocked back the rest of the fifth he stashed there, and made his way to the back room where he figured the John was. There were plenty of fairies and angels in the apartment, but they didn’t exactly have wings. More like crack whores who would suck your cock for five bucks. The king was a dwarf, played by Hervé Villechaize who is probably best known as Tattoo on Fantasy Island, Queen Doris of the Sixth Dimension was a real witch, and the extremely sexy and nubile princess walked around half naked the whole time. In one room a bunch of Catholic schoolgirls sat around Iggy Pop. It was quiet. The girls giggled and sighed wide-eyed when the wiry monkey blew his nose into his hands and ate his own snot. The bedposts weren’t stags, and the blanket wasn’t made of moss. No fir-lined magic chariot waited to save these young urchins. The Decider opened the door to the room across the way and as he fell inside he tried to make it look purposeful, like he was some kind of brilliant comedian, and it was a pratfall. It smelled like pot, ass, and sperm, funky, sweaty, and rancid, like a Skull and Bones after-party. The naked boys all looked shiny and brand new the way rich kids did. The President raised himself up on his haunches and tried to ignore the goings-on. One of them grabbed his junk. He played it off and simply said, “Later, baby,” as he backed his way out. It wasn’t his kind of scene. No way. There was a ruckus in the hallway when he finally turned around and got his back to the wall to steady himself. Condi Rice had ripped the wig of the long-lashed Tammy Faye Bakker, and they were going after each other. They tore each other’s dresses so their tits were hanging out. Their makeup was running and their nylons were ripped. The Decider edged along the wall until he got passed them. He had the wet shits. Getting to the can as fast as he could was the only thing on his mind. There were a couple of guys already in there. One of them was foaming up the other’s pubes with shaving cream. The Decider didn’t care. He dropped his drawers, planted his ass firmly on the porcelain goddess, and let loose. After he squeezed it all out he looked up and these two one-eyed monsters were staring at him. “Fuck off,” he said, and flushed. COCKS! Back in the living room, the Decider patted his jacket, found the other fifth in his back pocket, drained it, and tossed the bottle on the floor. He was ready to leave. The whole place swayed so much he felt seasick. He was making his way for the front door of the trailer when he noticed a woman kind of leaning against the far wall. She had her legs open but seemed rather dazed. He stumbled over and gave her a closer look. It was Condi. Her ass was as wide as a bus stop bench. The butt-man came out of him. He had always had a big crush on her, and dropped his pants and shorts. She looked real, real good. As he went in he stroked his wood in anticipation, and put the thing in, the little he had. Condi was cooing “Oooh,” about how good it felt, and the Decider was really getting going, when something RAMMED in between his butt cheeks. “What the HELL!” the President shouted and reached behind to pull the thing out. When he turned around he realized he was holding Darth Cheney’s flaccid undersized thing in his hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” he says to the Vice President. As Bukowski writes in one of his short pieces the other guy answers: “Listen, friend, this whole game is just one big deck of cards. If you want to get in the game you have to take whatever comes up in the shuffle.”