junk
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about mad houses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it’s relief and food stamps and
Medi-Cal.
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow.
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer and
tequila
which I have purchased.
sit with them.
wait on my fix:
am a poetry junkie.
they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T. S. Eliot worked a teller’s cage.
most poets are swans,
egrets.
sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.
the smoke pisses upward.
wait.
death is a nothing jumbo.
one of the females says that she likes my yellow shirt.
believe in a simple violence.
this is
some of it.
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
