Bukowski, this must have happened to you.

And you sit there in the kitchen low lighting and cigar butts smoldering and a woman on your lap and one on the phone in the bathroom to her dealer and the typewriter covered with cloth or a bed sheet when the one from the bathroom returns she turns the television set on (bending over you admire the shape of her rear and she drops an earring and crawls around so you rise at the sight of her tits) and you see a cheaply made show but the volume is down and you see me on a busted bed with wet red blood not from a frog not from a self harm wound and she's letting out oxygenated laughing thinking it's cum but who cums menstrual malade chiens barking as furniture moves around the womb (hit the ceiling with a phallic broom) who cums a city's artificial lights? I'm not phased by the mania (of course, this feeds a mania) It's the glory of showering off réglé at 4 a.m on a Saturday as the 7 million eggs you were born with diminish and soak into a bed we get back get back in to.