The Singular Self
there are these small cliffs
above the sea
and it is night, late night;
I have been unable to sleep,
and with my car above me
like a steel mother
I crawl down the cliffs,
breaking bits of rock
and being scratched by witless
and scrabby seaplants,
I make my way down
clumsy, misplaced,
an oddity on the shore,
and all around me are the lovers,
the two-headed beasts
turning to stare
at the madness
of a singular self;
shamed, I move on through them
to climb a row of wet boulders that
break the sea-stroke
into sheaths of white;
the moonlight is wet
on the bald stone
and now that I’m there
I don’t want to be there
the sea stinks
and makes flushing sounds
like a toilet
it is a bad place to die;
any place is a bad place to die,
but better a yellow room
with known walls and dusty
lampshades; so...
still stupidly off-course
like a jackal in a land of lions,
I make my way back through
them, through their blankets
and fires and kisses and sandy thumpings,
back up the cliff I climb
worse off, kicking clods,
and there the black sky, the black sea
behind me
lost in the game,
and I have left my shoes down there
with them 2 empty shoes,
and in the car
I start the engine,
headlights on I back away,
swing left drive East,
climb up the land and out,
bare feet on worn ribbed rubber
out of there
looking for
another place.
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
