Come On In!. Charles Bukowski

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СКАЧАТЬ put the book down and ask:

      why are they always writing about

      the bulls, the bullfighters?

      those who have never seen

      them?

      and as I break the web of the

      spider reaching for my wine,

      the hum of bombers

      breaking the solace, I decide

      I must write an impatient letter to my

      priest about some 3rd St.

      whore

      who keeps calling me up at 3 in

      the morning.

      ass full of

      splinters,

      thinking of pocketbook poets

      and the priest,

      I go over to the typewriter

      next to the window

      to see to my letter

      and look look

      the sky’s black as ink

      and my wife says Brock, for

      Christ’s sake,

      the typewriter all night,

      how can I sleep? and I crawl quickly

      into bed and

      kiss her hair and say

      sorry sorry sorry

      sometimes I get excited

      I don’t know why …

      a friend of mine has

      written a book about

      Manolete …

      who’s that? nobody, kid,

      somebody dead

      like Chopin or our old mailman

      or a dog,

      go to sleep, go to sleep,

      and I kiss her and rub her

      head,

      a good woman,

      and soon she sleeps as I wait

      for morning.

       a child’s bedtime story

      unsaid, said the snail.

      untold, said the tortoise.

      doesn’t matter, said the tiger.

      obey me, said the father.

      be loyal, said the country.

      watch me climb, said the vine.

      doesn’t matter, said the tiger.

      untold, said the tortoise,

      unsaid, said the snail.

      I’ll run, said the mouse.

      I’ll hide, said the cat.

      I’ll fly, said the sparrow.

      I’ll swim, said the whale.

      obey and be loyal, said the

      father and

      everybody shut up! roared the

      Queen.

      the night came and all

      the lights went out

      as the cities

      burned.

      now, go to

      sleep.

       working out in Hades

      holy Christ, I was on fire then and

      I’d tell that whore I lived with on Beacon Street

      starving and drinking

      I’d tell her that I had something great and mysterious

      going for me,

      in fact, when I got really drunk I’d pace the floor in my

      dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt and

      say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking

      genius and nobody knows it but

      me!”

      I thought this was rather humorous but she’d say, “honey, you’re

      full of shit, pour us another drink!”

      she was crazy too and now and then an empty bottle would come

      flying toward my head.

      (she

      missed most of the time)

      but

      when she bounced one off my skull I’d ignore it, and pour another

      drink because

      after all, when you’re immortal, nothing

      matters.

      and besides, she had one of the finest pair of legs I’d ever

      seen

      in those high-heeled shoes and with her slender

      ankles and her great knees glimmering in the

      smoky drunken light.

      she helped me through some of the worst times and if she was

      here now we’d both laugh our goddamned asses

      off

      knowing СКАЧАТЬ