I'm searching for a later Bukowski poem that I seem to have lost. In it he talks about receiving letters from his fans who imagine him as one of the world's working stiffs. Instead, he writes that he is living in a big house and he keeps a young poet who writes his stuff penned up and fed on "raw meat and whisky". Late in the poem he says that people say he is writing better than ever. It's a wonderful poem full of his humor.
I'd appreciate any help. Thanks
I'd appreciate any help. Thanks