Wednesday, January 13, 2010



(from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
by Charles Bukowski)

I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for
things to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer mostly beer
I have consumed after splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring waiting
for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later when
my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth they arrive
as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable she lives
seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very
little beer because she knows its bad
for the figure. while we are going mad
they are out dancing and laughing with
horney cowboys. well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up the bottles
fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack
rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning making the only sound
in your life. beer rivers and seas
of beer the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent and the walls
stand straight up and down
and beer is all there is.

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