Poetryfagitis is a well-documented condition that commonly affects young males age 14 - 25. Despite my steadfast efforts to avoid that demographic at work, at play, and everywhere in-between, I have apparently contracted a mild but persistent case of the disease.
Now, to the casual observer, I may appear the very picture of health. And in point of fact, I suffer from only one symptom: an unusual, nagging--nay, consuming--obsession with a fairly obscure poem by Charles Bukowski called "Party Girl" published alongside an interview of the poet (conducted by Mr. B's acolyte, Sean Penn) in the September 1987 issue of Interview magazine.
I am well aware that a poem about party girls--much less one by macho asshole Bukowski--seems an unlikely object of fascination for someone afflicted with poetryfagitis. All I can say is that I originally read the piece long ago, during my semi-carefree fagolescence, so maybe it has sentimental value.
Having suffered for weeks, I've come to the conclusion that the only way to cure myself is to dig up the poem, photocopy it or print it out, and post it on the bathroom mirror so I can read it every day. Unfortunately, it ain't that easy. There's very little of Bukowski's work online, leading me to believe that webgeeks love the occasional Byron/Keats/Shelley ode but look far less kindly on work written after 1900 (unless, of course, said geeks have written it themselves). Hard copies are hard to come by, too: generations of GloomBetties and GothBobs from Decatur Street to Avenue A have ravaged libraries in vain hope of following in Bukowski's allegedly reckless, booze-filled footsteps. Whatever shall I do?
Starting next week, the checkout counters of 7-11s across America will feature empty pickle jars with Xeroxed pictures of me. Below will run the caption: "Poetryfagitis isn't pretty. Won't someone cut this queen a break?"
