Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [7]
and the knives and the poisons and
the wines and the midgets and the
gamblers and the lights and the guns
and the lies and the sacrifices
and the flies and the frogs and the
flags and the doors and the windows
and the stairways and the cigarettes
and the hotels and myself have been
around a long time.
just like you.
poets to the rescue
the night the poets dropped by to say
hello
was at the time
that terrible time when
the ladies on the telephone
were screaming their fury
at me.
the night the poets came by to say
hello
I offered them cigarettes
as they talked about the
poet
who traveled all the way to Paris
in order to be able
to select the contents
of his next book
and we smiled at that
the poets and I
as we remembered starvation
dark mornings
deadly noons
evenings of elephantine
misery.
the night the poets came by to say
hello
we also mused about whatever happened to
Barney Google with the googly
eyes: he probably died for the love of
a strumpet as many good men
have
or went to London and walked in the
fog
waiting for
what?
the night the poets came by to say
hello
the walls were stained mellow with
grief
and beakers of curdled wine
dusty with dead spiders
sat about like memories best
forgotten.
the poets insisted then that it was best
not to think too much about things
or remember too much
but best just to sit around
in the evenings
and smoke our cigarettes and
drink our
beer
and talk quietly about
simple
things.
the poets
left soon after that
but the phone kept ringing
and I stood there frozen
as the ladies screamed their fury
at me.
what they wanted I didn’t have
and what I had
they didn’t want.
red hot mail
I continue to receive many letters
from young ladies.
evidently they have read some of
my books
but
they hardly ever
mention this.
many of their letters are
on pink or red
stationery
and they inform me that
they want to
kiss my lips and
they want to
come and stay with me
and
they say they will do anything
and everything
for and to me for
as long as
I can keep up with
them.
also, the younger ones are quick
to mention their
age: 21, 22, 23.
these letters are
fascinating, of
course,
but I always trash
them
for I know that all things
have their price
especially when they
are advertised as being
free.
besides,
what does it all mean?
bugs fuck, birds
fuck, horses
fuck, maybe some day they’ll
find that
even wind, water and
rocks
fuck.
and
where were all these eager
girls
when I was starving,
broke, young and
alone?
they were
not born yet, of
course.
I can’t blame them now
for
that.
but I do blame the girls
of my youth
for ignoring me and
for bedding down with all the
other
milkfish souls.
those other lads, I suppose,
were grateful then to
sink their spike into
any willing thing that
moved.
I only wish now some lass had
chanced upon me then
when I so needed her hair blowing in my
face
and her eyes smiling into mine,
when I so needed
that wild music
and that wild female willingness
to be
undone.
but they left me to sit alone
in tiny rented rooms
with only the company
of elderly landladies
and the comings and goings
of unsympathetic
roaches, they
left me terribly alone with
suicide mornings and
park bench
nights.
and now that
they are old
and
I am old
I don’t want to know
them
now
or even to know
their
daughters
even though
the gods
in their infinite wisdom
still refuse to
let me
forget and
rest.
some personal thoughts
they’re right: maybe it’s been too easy just writing about myself and
horses and drinking, but then I’m not trying to prove anything. taking
long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female
remains, I find that I needn’t always be on the lookout for new conquests.
riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a
problem for other men. I am often satisfied just being alone. I now find
people more amusing than disgusting (am I weakening?)