Bukowski's Prophecy

In the immortal words of Bukowski,
I fart better than I fuck now.
It was only a matter of time,
only a matter of digestive declaration,
winning out over the cock's foolish pride.
The pendulum swings toward
a comedy of errors.
Vigorous and loud splatter
sonic boom wrinkling the sheets.
My dark backside glamour,
voluminous Papal puffs
from a holy balcony of flesh
wafting blessings to the crowd.
Flatted fifth trumpeting.