Look at this night’s bloated passed out sky –

It barely breathes: this sky’s a blacked out 

Bukowski dream. A body-bruised dream 

Trapped beneath a waterbed’s stale wretch. 

Buk’s comments of grotesque eloquence

Interlace macabre’s beauty through his guttural utterance

To celebrate the intransigent nature of his personified sky:

A black and blue’d mascara smeared boozehound. 

“My kind of gal,” Buk would snarl (and very much mean it). 

He proceeds to paint “…the sky’s blue-purple majesty…etc., etc.…” 

And further extols the sordid bruised wrists of this now drunkard 

Once Beauty Queen. “Look at her Goddamned Face – so peaceful – 

the poor sow! She’s with the nocturnal gods now; 

Gloating and carrying on about the negative weight

Of her prized object – victory’s possession – “…it did glisten…” 

She says to the gods, “Once released from misogyny’s hands…”

And placed upon the wantonness of her perfect little head. 

Crowned and praised with flower adorned radiance, 

Ensconced in jewels, and other trinkets of shiny envy. 

The euphoric recall of her best effort’s achievement 

Recounts the vicious verdance of onlooking eyes, 

And their bloody fang-toothed-mouths and insatiable appetites – 

She apes a ferocious chomp while conveying the severity

Of her ruthless adversaries stone cold demeanors.

Then, the Beauty Queen leans in (slowly) 

And reveals to the nocturnal gods (as if a broken whore

Sharing a trade secret: “It’s not all fun and games you know…

But the sustained torture and eye popping preassure 

Is a small price to pay – for divinity’s assured fate.”

Then Charles rescues a new pack of beedies from his breast pocket,

And he tears the wrapper’s pink flesh 

To retrieve a tobacco stuffed temburni leaf, 

and lights it: 

This perfect partner to his Cutty and water

Evokes a pensive stare into his blue-bruised beauty. 

Buk concludes his fantasy’s dream, and states,

“Nope! Not a care in the world that one! A true Beauty Queen!”