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DarkMath ago

I don't often get moved to write poetry but here goes:

These fucking elitists in St Tropez need to be brought back down to Earth.

Jeff Koons needs his balloon dog popped.

Charles Bukowski needs to remind this high flying ass holes

what the fuck Art is all about.

Charles Bukowski needs to walk into one of these galleries

and take a nice big warm beer shit all over their floor.

And Charles would say "Hey! There you go. Try selling this for a change."

And then he'd walk out and make his way to the nearest Race Track

and save the good people there the stench of his warm beer shit.

The End


Sometimes I feel I'm possessed by the ghost of Charles Bukowski.. And I love every fucking minute of it.

:-D