The white poets

The white poets usually knock quite early
And keep knocking and ringing
Ringing and knocking
even though all the shades are down
Finally i arise with my hangover
Figuring such persistency must
Mean good fortune
A prize of some sort,  female or monetary
"alright,  alright" i shout
 looking for something to cover
My ugly naked body
Sometimes i must vomit first, then gargle
The gargle only makes me vomit again
I forget it, go to the door "hello"
"you bukowksi?" "yeah, come in"
We sit and look at each other
He, very vigorous and young
Latest blooming clothes, all colors and silk
Face like a weasel
"you don't remember me?" he asks "no"
"i was here before, you were rather short
You didn't like my poems"
"there are plenty of reasons
For not liking poems" "try these"
He put them on me
They were flatter than the paper
They were typed upon
There wasn't a tick, or a flare, not a sound
I've never read less i said, "uh uh"
"you mean you don't like them?"
"there's nothing there
It's like a pod of evaporated piss"
He took the paper, stood up and walked around
"look bukowski, I'll put some broads from
Malibu on you broads
Like you've never seen"
"oh yeah baby?" i asked
"yeah yeah" he said, and ran out the door
His malibu broads were like his poems
They never arrived