bukowski

Love is a dog from hell By Charles Bukowski

[bybukowski]

what they want

Vallejo writing about loneliness while starving to death ; Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a whore ; Rimbaud running off to Africa to look for gold and finding an incurable case of syphilis ; Beethoven gone deaf ; Pound dragged through the streets in a cage ; Chatterton taking rat poison ; Hemingway’s brains dropping into the orange juice ; Pascal cutting his wrists in the bathtub ; Artaud locked up with the mad ; Dostoevsky stood up against a wall ; Crane jumping into a boat propeller ; Lorca shot in the road by Spanish troops ; Berryman jumping off a bridge ; Burroughs shooting his wife ; Mailer knifing his. —that’s what they want : a God damned show a lit billboard in the middle of hell. that’s what they want, that bunch of dull inarticulate safe dreary admirers of carnivals. 

[bybukowski]

winter

big sloppy wounded dog hit by a car and walking toward the curbing making enormous sounds your body curled red blowing out of ass and mouth.

I stare at him and drive on for how would it look for me to be holding a dying dog on a curbing in Arcadia, blood seeping into my shirt and pants and shorts and socks and shoes? it would just look dumb. besides, I figure the 2 horse in the first race and I wanted to hook him with the 9 in the second. I figured the daily to pay around $140 so I had to let that dog die alone there just across from the shopping center with the ladies look- ing for bargains as the first bit of snow fell upon the Sierra Madre. 

[bybukowski]

this poet

this poet he’ d been drink ing 2 or 3 day ys and he wa lked out on t he stage and looked at th at audience and he just k new he was going to do i t. there was a grand pian o on stage a nd he walke d over and li fted the lid a nd vomited i nside the pia no. then he c losed the lid and gave his reading.

they had to r emove the st rings from t he piano and wash out the insides and r estring it.

I can unders tand why th ey never invi ted him bac k. but to pas s the word o n to other un iversities tha t he was a poet who lik ed to vomit i nto grand pi anos was un fair.

they never c onisdered th e quality of his reading. I know this poet: he’s ju st like the re st of us: he’l l vomit anyw here for mon ey. 

. . . charles bukowski

[bybukowski]

we will taste the islands and the sea

I know that some night in some bedroom soon my fingers will rift  through  soft clean hair

songs such as no radio plays

all sadness, grinning into flow.

. . . charles bukowski

[bybukowski]

2

me, and that old woman : sorrow

[bybukowski]

quiet clean girls in gingham dresses

all I’ve ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes,  madwomen. I see men with quiet, gentle women—I see them in the supermarkets,  I see them walking down the streets together, I see them in their apartments: people at peace, living together. I know that their peace is only partial, but there is peace, often hours and days of peace.

all I’ve ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics, whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen. 

when one leaves another arrives worse than her predecessor.

I see so many men with quiet clean girls in gingham dresses girls with faces that are not wolverine or predatory.

“don’t ever bring a whore around,” I tell my few friends, “I’ll fall in love with her.”

“you couldn’t stand a good woman, Bukowski.”

I need a good woman. I need a good woman more than I need this typewriter, more than I need my automobile, more than I need Mozart; I need a god woman so badly that I can taste her in the air, I can feel her at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built for her feet to walk upon, I can see pillows for her head, I can feel my waiting laughter, I can see her petting a cat, I can see her sleeping, I can see her slippers on the floor. 

I know that she exists but where is she upon this earth as the whores keep finding me?

 . . .  charles bukowksi

[bybukowski]

chicago

“I’ve made it,” she said, “I’ve come through.” she had on new boots, pants and a white sweater. “I know what I  want now.” she was from Chicago and  had settled in L.A.’s Fairfax district.

“you promised me champagne,” she said. “I was drunk when I phoned. how about a beer?” “no, pass me your joint.” she inhaled, let it out : “this isn’t very good stuff.” she handed it back.

“there’s a difference,” I said, “between making it and simply becoming hard.”

“you like my boots?” “yes, very nice.” “listen, I’ve got to go. can I use your bathroom?” “sure.”

when she came out she had on a large lipstick mouth. I hadn’t seen one of those since I was a boy. I kissed her in the doorway feeling the lipstick rub off on my lips.

“goodbye,” she said. “goodbye,” I said.

she went up the walk toward her car. I closed the door. she knew what she wanted and it wasn’t me. I know more women like that than any other kind.

. . . charles bukowski

[bybukowski]

communion

horses running with her miles away laughing with a fool

Bach and the hydrogen bomb and her miles away laughing with a fool

the banking system bumper jacks gondolas in Venice and her miles away laughing with a fool

you've never quite seen a stairway before  (each step looking at you separately) and outside the newsboy looking immortal as the cars go by under a sun like an enemy and you wonder why it's so hard to go crazy—   if you're not already crazy

until now you've never seen a stairway that looked like a stairway a doorknob that looked like a doorknob and sounds like these sounds

and when the spider comes out and looks at you finally you don't hate it finally with her miles away laughing with a fool 

. . . charles bukowksi

[bybukowski]

one for old snaggle-tooth

I know a woman who keeps buying puzzles chinese puzzles blocks wires pieces that finally fit into some order. she works it out mathematically she solves all her puzzles lives down by the sea puts sugar out for the ants and believes ultimately in a better world. her hair is white she seldom combs it her teeth are snaggled and she wears loose shapeless coveralls over a body most women would wish they had. for many years she irritated me with what I considered her eccentricities—   like soaking eggshells in water (to feed the plants so that  they'd get calcium). but finally when I think of her life and compare it to other lives more dazzling, original and beautiful I realize that she has hurt fewer people than anybody I know (and by hurt I simply mean hurt). she has had some terrible times, times when maybe I should have helped her more for she is the mother of my only child and we were once great lovers, but she has come through like I said she has hurt fewer people than anybody I know, and if you look at it like that, well, she has created a better world. she has won.

Frances, this poem is for you.  

. . . charles bukowski

[bybukowski]

turnabout

she drives into the parking lot while I am leaning up against the fender of my car. she's drunk and her eyes are wet with tears: "you son of a bitch, you fucked me when you didn't want to. you told me to keep phoning you, you told me to move closer into town, then you told me to leave you alone."

it's all quite dramatic and I enjoy it. "sure, well, what do you want?"

"I want to talk to you, I want to go to your place and talk with you . . . "

"I'm with somebody now. she's in getting a sandwich."

"I want to talk to you . . . it takes a while to get over things. I need more time."

"sure. wait until she comes out. we're not inhuman. we'll all have a drink together."

"shit," she says, "oh shit!"

she jumps into her car and drives off.

the other one comes out: "who was that?"

"an ex-friend."

now she's gone and I'm sitting here drunk and my eyes seem wet with tears.   it's very quiet and I feel like I have a spear rammed into the center of my gut.

I walk into the bathroom and puke.

mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy? 

. . . charles bukowski

[bybukowski]

225 pounds

we were in bed and she started to fight : "you son of a bitch! you just wait a minute, I'll get you!"

I began laughing : "what's the matter? what's the matter?"

 "you son of a bitch!" she screamed.

I held her hands as she squirmed.

she was a couple of decades younger than I  a health food freak. she was very strong.

"you son of a bitch! I'll get you!" she screamed.

I rolled on top of her with my 225 pounds and just layed it there on her.

"uugg, oooo, my God, that's not fair, oooo, my God!" 

I rolled off and walked into the other room and  sat on the couch.

"I'll get you, you bastard," she said, "you just wait!"

"just don't bite it off," I said, "or you'll make a half dozen women very unhappy."

she climbed up on the headboard of my bed (it did have a flat though narrow surface) and sat perched there watching the news on tv. the tv faced the bedroom and it illuminated her as she sat up there on the headboard.

"I thought you were sane," I said, "but you're just as crazy as the rest of them."

"be quiet," she said, "I want to watch the news!"

"look," I said, "I'll . . . "

 "SHUSH!" she said.

and there she was up on the headboard of my bed really watching the news. I accepted her that  way.  

. . . charles bukowski

[bybukowski]

pacific telephone

you go for these wenches, she said, you go for these whores, I'll bore you.

I don't want to be shit on anymore, I said, relax.

when I drink, she said, it hurts my bladder, it burns.

I'll do the drinking, I said.

you're waiting for the phone to ring, she said, you keep looking at the phone. if one of those wenches phones you'll run right out of here.

I can't promise you anything, I said.

then—just like that—the phone rang.

this is Madge, said the phone. I've got to see you right away.

oh, I said.

I'm in a jam, she continued, I need ten bucks—fast.

I'll be right over, I said, and hung up. 

she looked at me. it was a wench, she said, your whole face lit up. what the hell's the matter with you?

listen, I said, I've got to leave. you stay here. I'll be right back.

I'm going, she said. I love you but you're crazy, you're doomed.

she got her purse and slammed the door.

it's probably some deeply-rooted childhood fuckup that makes me vulnerable, I thought.

then I left my place and got into my volks. I drove north up Western with the radio on. there were whores walking up and down both sides of the street and Madge looked more vicious than any of them.  

[bybukowski]

103 degrees

she cut my toenails the night before, and in the morning she said, "I think I'll just lay here all day." which meant she wasn't going to work. she was at my apartment—which meant another day and another night. she was a good person but she had just told me that she wanted to have a child, wanted marriage, and it was 103 degrees outside. when I thought of another child and  another marriage  I really began to feel bad. I had resigned myself to dying alone in a small room— now she was trying to reshape my master plan. besides she always slammed my car door too loud and ate with her head too close to the table. this day we had gone to the post office, a department store and then to a sandwich place for lunch. I already felt married. driving back in I almost ran into a Cadillac. "let's get drunk," I said. "no, no," she answered, "it's too early." and then she slammed the car door. it was still 103 degrees. when I opened my mail I found my auto insurance company wanted $76 more. suddenly she ran into the room and screamed, "LOOK, I'M TURNING RED! ALL BLOTCHY! WHAT'LL I DO!" "take a bath," I told her. I dialed the insurance company long distance and demanded to know why. she began screaming and moaning from the bathtub and I couldn't hear and I said, "just a moment, please!" I covered the phone and screamed at her in the bathtub : "LOOK! I'M ON LONG DISTANCE! HOLD IT DOWN, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!" the insurance people still maintained that I owed them $76 and would send me a letter explaining why. I hung up and stretched out on the bed. I was already married, I felt married. she came out of the bathroom and said, "can I stretch out beside you?" and I said, "o.k." in ten minutes her color was normal. it was because she had taken a niacin tablet. she remembered that it happened every time. we stretched out there sweating : nerves. nobody has soul enough to overcome nerves. but I couldn't tell her that. she wanted her baby. what the fuck. 

[bybukowski]

Bee's 5th

I heard it first while screwing a blonde

who had the biggest box in Scranton.

I listened to it again as I wrote a letter to my mother asking for 5,000 dollars and she mailed back 3 bottletops and  the stems of grandpop's forefingers.

The 5th will kill you  in the grass or at the track, the kitten said, walking across the popinjay rug.

if the 5th don't kill you, the tenth will, said the Caliente hooker. as they ran up the beautiful catsup red flag 93 thieves wept in the purple dust.  

the 5th is like an  ant in a breakfastnook full of swaggersticks and june bugs sucking dawn's orange juice coming.

and I took the 3 bottletops from my mother and ate them wrapped in pages from Cosmopolitan magazine.

but I am tired of the 5th  and I told this to a woman in Ohio once, I had just packed coal up 3 flights of stairs I was drunk and dizzy, and she said:

          how can you say you don't care           for something greater than you'll           ever be?

and I said:

           that's easy.

and she sat in a green chair and I sat in a red chair and after that we never made love again.  

[bybukowski]

T.M.

she lived in Galveston and was into T.M. and I went down to visit her and we made love continually even though it was very warm weather and we took mescalin and we took the ferry to the island and drove 200 miles to the nearest racetrack.  we both won and sat in a redneck bar— disliked and distrusted by the natives— and then we went to a redneck motel and came back a day or two later and I stayed another week painted her a couple of good paintings— one of a man being hanged and another of a woman being fucked by a wolf. I awakened one night and she wasn't in bed and I got up and walked around saying, "Gloria, Gloria, where are you?" it was a large place and I walked around opening door after door,  and then I opened what looked like a closet door and there she was on her knees surrounded by photographs of 7 or 8 men heads shaved most of them wearing rimless spectacles. there was a small candle burning and I said, "oh, I'm sorry." Gloria was dressed in a kimono with flying eagles on the back of it. I closed the door and went back to bed. she came out in 15 minutes, we began kissing, her larger tongue sliding in and out of my mouth. she was a large healthy Texas girl. "listen, Gloria," I finally managed to say, "I need a night off."

the next day she drove me to the airport. I promised to write. she promised to write. neither of us has written.  

[bybukowski]

problems about the other women

I had worked my charms on her for a couple of nights in a bar— not that we were new lovers, I had loved her for 16 months but she didn't want to come to my place "because that other woman has been there," and I said, "all right, all right, what will we do?"

she had come in from the north and was looking for a place to stay meanwhile roomed with her girlfriend, and she went to her rent-a-trailer and got out some blankets and said, "let's go to the park." I told her she was crazy the cops would get us but she said, "no, it's nice and foggy," so we went to the park spread out the equipment and began working and here came headlights— a squad car— she said, "hurry, get your pants on! I've got mine on!" I said, "I can't. they're all twisted-up." and they came with flashlights and asked what we were doing and she said, "kissing!" one of the cops looked at me and said, "I don't blame you," and after some small talk they left us alone. but she still didn't want the bed where that woman had been, so we ended up in a dark hot motel room sweating and kissing and working but we made it all right ; but I mean, after all that suffering . . . we were a my place finally that next afternoon doing the same thing.

those weren't bad cops though that night in the park— and it's the first time I ever said that about cops, and, I hope, the last time I ever have to.  

[bybukowski]

blue cheese and chili peppers

these women are supposed to come and see me but they never do. there's the one with the long scar along her belly. there's the other who writes poems and phones at 3 a.m., saying, "I love you." there's the one who dances with a boa constrictor and writes every four weeks, she'll come, she says. and the 4th who claims she sleeps always with my latest book under her pillow.

I whack-off in the heat and listen to Brahms and eat blue cheese with chili peppers.

these are women of good mind and body, excellent in or out of bed, dangerous and deadly, of course— but why do they all have to live up north?

I know that someday they'll arrive, but two or three on the same day, and we'll sit around and talk and then they'll all leave together.

somebody else will have them and I will walk about in my floppy shorts smoking too many cigarettes and trying to make drama out of no damned progress at all.