fuck
she pulled her dress off
over her head
and I saw the panties
indented somewhat into the
crotch.
it's only human.
now we've got to do it.
I've got to do it
after all that bluff.
it's like a party--
two trapped
idiots.
under the sheets
after I have snapped
off the light
her panties are still
on. she expects an
opening performance.
I can't blame her. but
wonder why she's here with
me? where are the other
guys? how can you be
lucky? having someone the
others have abandoned?
we didn't have to do it
yet we had to do it.
it was something like
establishing new credibility
with the income tax
man. I get the panties
off. I decide not to tongue her. even then
I'm thinking about
after it's over.
we'll sleep together
tonight
trying to fit ourselves
inside the wallpaper.
I try, fail,
notice the hair on her
head
mostly notice the hair
on her
head
and a glimpse of
nostrils
piglike
I try it again.
Tag: sex
alone with everybody
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and them men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but they keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
Tag: love
There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him.
Charles BukowskiHey baby, when I write, I'm the hero of my shit.
Charles BukowskiThe whole scene was indecent, mad. It smacked of murder and assassination.
Charles BukowskiAnd yet women-good women--frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep.
Charles BukowskiThey looked as if nothing had ever touched them--all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.
Charles BukowskiThere’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.
Charles BukowskiThere was nothing glorious about the life of a drinker or the life of a writer.
Charles Bukowskithe way to create art is to burn and destroy
ordinary concepts and to substitute them
with new truths that run down from the top of the head
and out of the heart
Tag: art destruction
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