a clean, well-lighted place
the old fart, he used his literary reputation
to reel them in one at a time,
each younger than the last.
he liked to meet them for luncheon and
wine
and he’d talk and listen to them
talk.
what ever wife or girlfriend he had at the moment
was made to
understand that this sort of thing made him
feel “young again.”
and when the luncheons became more
than luncheons
the young ladies vied to bed down with
this
literary
genius.
in between, he continued to write,
and late at night in his favorite bar
he liked to talk about writing and his amorous
adventures.
actually, he was just a drunk
who liked young ladies,
writing itself,
and talking about writing.
wasn’t a bad life.
was certainly more interesting than
what most men were
doing.
at one time he was probably the
most famous writer in the
world.
many tried to write like he did
drink like he did
act like he did
but he was the original.
then life began to
catch up with him.
he began to age quickly.
his large bulk began to wither.
he was growing old
before his time.
finally it got to where he couldn’t
write anymore,
it just wouldn’t come”
and the psychiatrists couldn’t
do anything for him but only
made it worse.
then he took his own cure,
early one morning,
alone
just as his father had done
many years
before.
writer who can’t write any
more is dead
anyhow.
he knew that.
he knew that what he was
killing was already
dead.
and then the critics
and the hangers-on
and the publicists
and his heirs
moved in
like vultures.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
