I read somewhere that Bukowski lived with nine cats.

I’ve also read somewhere, or was told by someone, 

that when you die, your cat will eat you before your body even gets cold.

I can only image if Bukowski died alone in his house. 

Alone, except for those nine cats. 

And I can only imagine those nine cats, waiting for the feeding frenzy to begin.

I bet Bukowski would taste horrible. 

All that cheap wine and cigarettes, that dirty old man, 

probably passed out cold on the ground in his tighty-whities

(the ones that probably have a broken elastic waistband)

and a pit-stained undershirt draped over his hairy, fat body.

A genius, but a dirty old genius nonetheless.