soon I'll finish this 5th of
Puerto Rican rum.
in the morning I'll vomit and
shower, drive back
in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,
be back in my room by
2,
stretched on the bed,
waiting for the phone to ring,
not answering,
my holiday is an
evasion, mt reasoning
is not.
I was only kidding about the hundred," she says.
oh," I say, "what will it cost me?"
she lights her cigarette with
my lighter and looks at me
through the flame:
her eyes tell me.
look," I say, "I don't think I
can ever pay that price again.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
and you invented me
and I invented you
and that's why we don't
get along
on this bed
any longer.
you were the world's
greatest invention
until you
flushed me
away.
now it's your turn
to wait for the touch
of the handle.
somebody will do it
to you,
bitch,
and if they don't
you will -
mixed with your own
green or yellow or white
or blue
or lavender
goodbye.
she is no longer
the beautiful woman
she was. she sends
photos of herself
sitting upon a rock
by the ocean
alone and damned.
I could have had
her once. I wonder
if she thinks I
could have
saved her?
but right now
it's Bob Dylan
Bob Dylan Bob
Dylan all the
way.
the masses are everywhere
they know how to do things:
they have sane and deadly angers
for sane and deadly
things.
I
have a face like a washrag. I sing
love songs and carry steel.
I would rather die than cry. I can't
stand hounds can't live without them.
I hang my head against the white
refrigerator and want to scream like
the last weeping of life forever but
I am bigger than the mountains.
I hope that death contains
less than this.
That's the way it ends. The thin edge of the wedge.
Charles Bukowski« erste vorherige
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