A Pleasant Afternoon in Bed
red summers and black satin
charcoal and blood
ringing the sheets
while snails are stepped
on and moths go batty
trying to put on the eyes
of lightbulbs in
artificial cities;
I light her a cigarette
and she blows up a plasma
of relaxation
to prove we’ve both been
good lovers—
white on black, and in black;
and her toes strike dark
intersections
in my beefy sheets
she says, that elevator boy...
y’know him?
I say yes.
a bastard... beats his wife.
I put my hand
flat to the surface
where the curve goes down.
damn for an OLD man,
you sure likes to play!
I reach over and pick up
the bottle, suck it down
flat on my back,
the suds like soap
gagging me with gulp-dull
sounds, and she’s listening,
eyes rolling
like newsreel cameras,
and suddenly I have got to laugh,
I spiral out a whale-stream
of foam and liquid
majestic against the wallpaper
not knowing why,
and she laughs
looking down at my flat madness,
she laughs
holding her cigarette
high in the air
with one arm
smoke sifting off
ignored
and we are in bed together
laughing
and we don’t care,
about anything
and it is very
very funny.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
