Bukiche

povey got ready to make tea. He decided to do a short pastiche of Bukowski. It got you that way. Tea. tea. Ta very much. Fuck you very much. After all the shit his father had put him through here he was celebrating the counter culture. Was Bukowski counter culture? Was his father? Or were they both Nazis. The guy who ran the arts center had asked him if he thought he that he was reactionary. 'Not particularly,' Povey had replied. Would people think he was a faggot if he said that his favourite thing to do was fuck his own brain? Povey is afraid of women. Bukowski was a fraid of women. He said so. In print no less. Povey thought about this whole social media hype. The information revolution they called it. Like most revolutions it was built on lies and stank of shit but then so was his apartement. He would be homeless without the revolution, or famous or perhaps he would have a job in the city without the revolution, or a wife and kids, or be in a monestary or fucking for a living full time. But still he probably wouldn't be on the sick writing Bukowski pastiches without the revolution. Better make that tea he thought while the white skinny figment of womens imagination sang on the radio...