PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE

WE PUKED TOGETHER IN A RUSTY TUB Bukowski spoof 3/28/93 paul's balls, hey, got to thinking i'd rather do a bukowski spoof than a lifshin so enclosing what just came out. perhaps you wld enjoy delving into it too. i wanted to use short-lined shit, but found myself doing longer lines, so probably didn't get bukowski's form down in the least (it's not that grandiose after all); but maybe you cld do it. maybe we cld title it BUKOWSKI'S BEST STORY, or THE LIFE OF CHARLES BUKOWSKI, or something slanderous like that. i'll send him a copy. have a few DILLINGER IS ME left...3...i forget if i mailed you what is on disk...i write people but then can't remember if i type it from the files...that's not smoke's fault... envision s. clay wilson doing the art for this proposition... he didn't respond to diana's art, when i certainly expected him to. maybe he's traveling or dead, i don't know. weber asked for yr address. i gave it to him. he probably gave it to moore, who'll come & dust you. joe just called. 57 days without a drink. dui, & other stuff. my shit-head cousin looking at 20 years for forgery! in erie county jail over the bad checks now, but he do forgery ontop of that! i'm still working. 6 more days & i'm no longer probationary. they hire/fire left & right. cops had to come for last kid they fired. oil-lines blow, fires burst ontop of the flat-sheet presses, styrene fumes & fibrous glass galore eating away the human species, it's some true insanity. i feel like i've been there 100 years already. anyways, see what ya think. we can do an editor's contraction again, & jesus maybe even do it under WHITE SPARROW PRESS or something like that. "a special wormywood edition"??????? fuck it & do it. jane her eyes were horses' assholes dumping after the race, i lost the rent money again, & jane was drunk on a rickety silver stool drinking whiskey from an easy blow-job in the street forgetting to fix her lipstick. i sauntered over beside the old girl, slapped my hand on the wet bar like a huge hoof stomping on wood. "buyme adrink," she sloshingly muttered. so i knew she had the money & fat fuck frank had winked at me from the tap. she'd later think i bought the booze we puked together in a rusty tub in the hot, l.a. morning. tony liked tits "they're the first things god made!" he exploded horny in an alley. i listened to cats scratching & fucking under smog moonlight, passed him the bottle, scratched at my rolling balls, spit a mint-green hocker near his split shoe. i'd had it with women, those minds of cunts like black-widow webs snarling me up to eat my goddamn life live. i had a five in my pocket i won off a crazy horse, & tony had a lot of ones he stole from his slut sister, the night was beginning to scab over & the hookers were calling us motherfucking assholes much to tony's delight. "tits! tits! tits!" he pointed. my skull was hurting, the cats were dead, the whores got mean, i needed a drink. "let's go," i sd. "let's go see jane for at least a cheap hand-job." in the corner fat fuck frank knew the game. tony tumbled out some tumbleweed bills when we walked in, i went straight to jane asleep in a black booth. i thought decapitation was a good idea, it crossed my mind i'll admit, she was a sleeping witch & i was this boy in a book. clear drool weaved below her lips like a rope from hell. "hey, jane," i lumbered in against her. "we got business here." after a while she sat up. "aren't you th'asshole withda clap?" "no, you got me wrong. i'm the cock with the applause." "buyme adrink asshole. like magic tony showed with 3 glasses of whiskey, his fingers deep in the glasses like brown gnarled roots of a dirty tree but birds were tweaking in the leaves & we soon had jane agreeing to anything for a buck. tony came first acting like a goddamn spastic & i looked over & fat fuck frank was winking & jane burped & i heard pool-balls cracking & i smelled cigars like childhood & tho jane looked dead in her seat she was pumping me wildly below & i blew that hot gunk outta me & tony lit a cigarette & blew the first puff in my face, just enough to piss me off, see, so i stood high about to ax him over the table at the neck, but realized i had to stuff my drooling cock back in my pants, & by then even fat fuck frank was howling & spilling drafts & i never heard jane giggle before like that, it was the purest giggle of humanity any human giggled. at the track i want to puke but a young angel is pressed against my back in line to place the bets. enough & more to feel the outline of her bra, those wings she's welding to me. if i was sober & shaven & washed i'd turn around with a good hard-on out my zipper. but i'm sick & drunk & need to get this horse fast before i'm sure to lose the last of my money my angel of mercy is smelling my fart & she can't help it nor can i. the typewriter it's a dog-turd in eternity, it's a block of frozen piss, it's not even mine, but i'm writing poems after kicking jane out this steamy, piss- drenched california afternoon. bitch thinks my cigarettes are free? typing poems on this typewriter hung-over on a tuesday. no place to go to work, just fired from the slaughter-house of course for attendance & boozing & nearly pulling my blade on the foreman, but i did hold back & that's victory. sometimes i don't even act american. & this isn't what the french faggot poets do either. jane gave me this typewriter to use so she cld crash here until the landlord wants money. bitch thinks what's mine is hers? a good horse is coming in tonight, maybe it's easy-street for the rest of the week, i feel lucky & i know jane'll return & i'll let her in & she'll snore & we'll puke together & we'll kiss. pigs found tony he wasn't breathing he wasn't smiling the smile of tits & booze & freedom he was dead his face was mangled like a smashed chunk of beef he lay with the broken glass, with the rats & certain vipers, hell is furious when it comes to us who so luxuriously perish over booze money girls & the jackals from hades are always rib-slim. jane's tranks i guess she did as many as there were, i tell the doctor who eerily resembles frank sinatra's head on a white elephant tusked with a stethoscope & compassion. his white hand burns into my shoulder. "we'll do all we can do," he whispers. my back hurts from lugging her blocks, nobody offered to help & i've reached the conclusion about mankind: death ain't nothing, the dying are dead & the living are dying & the smoggy moon survives, the booze, the pills, the fucks, sins, blades survive. even this typewriter, it's jane's ghost that's survived. one hundred & eighty-nine years later i discover fame doesn't change the luck of a horse, nor does satan forget about our soul 'cause we slow down, stick to wine & american debt. i know hollywood is all cocaine & expensive pussy, & anybody that endures becomes fucking celluloid or paper. wisdom don't count for shit, either.