Well, at the risk of getting hammered, and perhaps deservedly so, here's a bit I did for a contest at Bukowski Tavern in conjunction with Harpoon Brewery. I never submitted this. The only requirements were the use of the words, "Bukowski," "pen," "pint," and "Harpoon." I don't think my bit would have pleased them, but here it is:
Pointless
The interior is somewhat greyed, even if not truly grey. The walls speak, but the language is thankfully unfamiliar. A single sheet of wallpaper in the kitchen has begun to slowly droop, long ignored, several feet down from the ceiling, next to the refrigerator. Silence is the preferred means of communication here.
A sad, tired balustrade hangs from the frayed brick exterior, on rusted bolts, just off the livingroom, which bears the mark of a tired, yet somehow mired characature of bawd; one schooled in how not to be schooled; one dripping with a grin of wisdom not seen by ordinary eyes. There is a certain resoluteness about the place; a calm, yet disturbed peace that eeks from the stale air within. Confusion is palpable. The grey sometimes fades, and sometimes lightens; all the time a distant clacking sound is almost imperceptibly audible. The corroded Delongpre Avenue sign in the corner is dusty and tells no tale.
The thought of looking in the bedroom is both intriguing and revolting. Intrigue it is. The scattered 10s and 20s in the closet are telling, yet dissapointingly cliché. What is striking is the row of flower pots on the wall shelves and window sashes, bursting with geraniums. The color and fragrance is captivating, nearly intoxicating. Fresh buds and flowers in full bloom, smiling with all that they portend. Truly a disconnect is here, and the truth behind it is now gone to the earth. Words may beckon, but eyes will fail.
A woman with long brown hair, tight jeans, and cowboy boots emerges from a distant place in the grey, and mutters that the '67 Volks was a piece of junk. The words stab, but they do not inflict any pain. A second woman, more voluptuous, with short black hair and big tits, decapitates the cowboy-boot wearing woman. Then they are gone. The BMW has a black leather interior. It doesn't matter. It's all grey, even if it isn't.
Horses don't run today, as it is Christmas. The track will be muddy in this foul rain, and the hard seats that much more uncomfortable because of it on the 26th. Damn it all; bet from the bar. Scotch and water, and a high yellow with thighs like tree-trunks. That and Sterling Snuffling in the 2nd, and things will be alright.
Can't break this; can't even keep this in memory. It has flocked my brain, and it is beating like a parlayed heart. Time may be a window; reality a pair of dirty undershorts, but it all smacks of pretense. This must be locked away, forever hidden from a realm of existence too mad to know the light of day. What shall it be? A question? A myth? A fallacy? This is far too much. It must be destroyed. Thrown to the deepest reaches of misery or love, it must be...
And somehow there is a need to compose this. Which brings up the subject of writing implements. Bukowski shunned the pen, preferring the typer. If he were here right now, he'd probably peel the cellophane from a pint of Cutty Sark, and harpoon the shack-job, bringing all those geraniums down from the shelves in grand fashion.
