Bukowski is in my bathroom
sitting on the toilet.
His legs are skinny, pale as a dead fish,
and extraordinarily hairy,
and he’s naked, except for a Brooklyn Dodgers cap
perched on top of his head.
“What are you doing in my bathroom?”
I demand, although I see pages of my poetry
scattered across the tile - I open a window.
“I hope you fuck better than you write,”
the Big Bukowski growls,
using one of my poems to wipe his ass.
In dreams past I have killed him
by wringing his neck with my bare hands,
hitting him over his head
with a giant bottle of Boones Farm wine,
shooting him (there is never any blood)
and flushing him down the toilet.
Last night, however, the dream varied -
“I hope you fuck better than you write,”
but when he reached for a poem on the floor,
not to read, but to defile it,
I sat on the edge of the bathtub and cried
like a broken-hearted little kid.
Bukowski was suddenly dressed,
clean-shaven, and smelled like cologne -
“Your poetry makes me want to puke,
but you’re a good girl. You’re a good girl.”
I still killed him, but I felt better about it.
Adding your comment:
anyways it's good but then you always are 
C
.
I wouldn't hand this to Freud .. he'd probably make more of it than is necessary, as seems the case in most of his advice ... but it could be fun to torture him. 
