Love Is a Dog From Hell_ Poems, 1974-1977 - Charles Bukowski [25]
peeking up their legs
pleased that I will never be
part of their heaven and
their hell. but that scarlet
lipstick on those sad waiting
mouths! it would be nice to
kiss each of them once, fully,
then give them back.
but the bus will
get them first.
4
popular melodies in the last of your mind
up your yellow river
a woman told a man
when he got off a plane
that I was dead.
a magazine printed
the fact that I was dead
and somebody else said
that they’d heard that I
was dead, and then somebody
wrote an article and said
our Rimbaud our Villon is
dead. at the same time an old
drinking buddy published
a piece stating that I
could no longer write. a
real Judas job. they can’t
wait for me to go, these
farts. well, I’m listening
to Tchaikovsky’s piano
concerto number one and
the announcer said Mahler’s
5th and 10th symphonies
are coming up via
Amsterdam,
and the beerbottles are
on the floor and ash
from my cigarettes
covers my cotton underwear
and my gut, I’ve
told all my girlfriends to
go to hell, and even this
is a better poem than any
of those gravediggers
could write.
artists:
she wrote me for years.
“I’m drinking wine in the kitchen.
it’s raining outside. the children
are in school.”
she was an average citizen
worried about her soul, her typewriter
and her
underground poetry reputation.
she wrote fairly well and with honesty
but only long after others had
broken the road ahead.
she’d phone me drunk at 2 a.m.
at 3 a.m.
while her husband slept.
“it’s good to hear your voice,” she’d
say.
“it’s good to hear your voice too,” I’d
say.
what the hell, you
know.
she finally came down. I think it had
something to do with
The Chapparal Poets Society of California.
they had to elect officers. she phoned me
from their hotel.
“I’m here,” she said, “we’re going to elect
officers.”
“o.k., fine,” I said, “get some good ones.”
I hung up.
the phone rang again.
“hey, don’t you want to see me?”
“sure,” I said, “what’s the address?”
after she said goodbye I jacked-off
changed my stockings
drank a half bottle of wine and
drove on out.
they were all drunk and trying to
fuck each other.
I drove her back to my place.
she had on pink panties with
ribbons.
we drank some beer and
smoked and talked about
Ezra Pound, then we
slept.
it’s no longer clear to
me whether I drove her to
the airport or
not.
she still writes letters
and I answer each one
viciously
hoping to make her
stop.
someday she may luck into
fame like Erica
Jong. (her face is not as good
but her body is better)
and I’ll think,
my God, what have I done?
I blew it.
or rather: I didn’t blow
it.
meanwhile I have her box number
and I’d better inform her
that my second novel will be out
in September.
that ought to keep her nipples hard
while I consider the possibility of
Francine du Plessix Gray.
I have shit stains in my underwear too
I hear them outside:
“does he always type this
late?”
“no, it’s very unusual.”
“he shouldn’t type this
late.”
“he hardly ever does.”
“does he drink?”
“I think he does.”
“he went to the mailbox in
his underwear yesterday.”
“I saw him too.”
“he doesn’t have any friends.”
“he’s old.”
“he shouldn’t type this late.”
they go inside and it begins
to rain as
3 gun shots sound half a block
away and
one of the skyscrapers in
downtown L.A. begins
burning
25 foot flames licking toward
doom.
Hawley’s leaving town
this guy
he’s got a crazy eye
and he’s brown
a dark brown from the sun
the Hollywood and Western sun
the racetrack sun
he sees me and he says,
“hey, Hawley’s leaving town
for a week. he messes up
my handicapping. now
I’ve got a chance.”
he’s grinning, he means it:
with Hawley out of town
he’s going to move toward
that castle in the Hollywood Hills;
dancing girls
six German Shepherds
a drawbridge,
ten year old
wine.
Sam the Whorehouse Man
walks up and I tell Sam that
I am clearing $150 a day
at the track.
“I work right off the
toteboard,” I tell him.
“I need a girl,” he