Joey Cloudy online

Bukowski In Hell 

dedicated to bad writers 

Charles Bukowski is in hell doing 14 billion sits up a day before bench-pressing the Earth and Venus by ramming his veined purple onion through the planets poles so he would have a bar long enough and strong enough to hold the weight of two worlds. After his first set of a trillion reps, he puts his nuts on the bar next to the planets. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell, and he’s still got bigger balls than you. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell, while his rotten corpse is break dancing in a California graveyard a crater faced Cro-Magnon cadaver dressed in oily rags covered with maggots and penis envy of the living illitrati with small dicks and smaller minds. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell blogging under the pseudonym 

“FUCK ALL A YA’ COCKSUCKER MOTHERFUCKS !”  

Charles Bukowski is in hell donkey punching Satan screaming; What’s my name bitch!? What’s My Name?! 

Charles Bukowski is in hell skeeting in Kerouacs’ face while the ultimate typing tourist sits in Hells’ kitchen hunting the pecking order while his mima looks over his shoulder as she serves him buzzard soup. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell tripping Hemingway every time he runs the bull queers while Dorothy Parker laughs so hard, she pisses her panties. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell shitting Stinger missiles and wiping his ass with the lost original 36-page draft of ‘The Wasteland.’ 

Charles Bukowski is in hell sucker punching Ginsberg every time some dumb ass says he was a Beat poet, he does. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell belly up to the bar drinking shots of Nitro Glycerin with a leaded gasoline chaser. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell raping the celestial bodies of our virginal mothers while fist fucking Hitler’s asshole listening to the water music and Wagner’s Ring Trilogy. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell waiting to kick all of your delusional asses. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell pimp-slapping whinny suburban shop at the mall, punk by number fuckers just like you. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell beating the cowboy shit outta’ all the lazy hippy dippy fucks who read his work and never understood that he hates us all, just like god. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell for giving St. Peter an Atomic wedgee and the big “G” the finger. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell because nobody who could write worth a damned ever did so in peace and quiet. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell playing the ponies, betting on dead horses, touring the bars, fighting in the sulfurous stench of back alleys, fucking the three-hundred-pound whores, pissing razor blades in the brimstone streets. Because all of the interesting people are there like Gandhi. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell, after all who wants to be in a place for eternity surrounded by all those stuck up christian bitches who wouldn’t piss on his head if his hair was on fire or fuck him when he was alive, living in drunken poverty, fighting banality, the demon menagerie of childhood fears and rejection. 

Charles Bukowski is in hell, his muscles as hard as titanium and his cock harder than the calculus. The poet laureate of the netherworld wearing nothing, but skid marked boxers and a smile, sitting full lotus on the morning stars burnt skull throne, picking his teeth with the bones of mediocre writers. Buying rounds for his legions of enemies raising his glass in a toast

“to all my friends.”

A ghost writing a novel a day about what matters when the clocks faces are blank double amputees and you’re trapped on the wrong side of the tracks in oblivion. 

-About the author

JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals: Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, TX.