The Sunday Artist, by Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski

The Sunday Artist

I have been painting these last two Sundays;

it’s not much, you’re correct,

but in this tournament great dreams break:

history removes her dress and becomes a harlot,

and I have awakened in the morning

to see eagles flapping their wings like shades;

I have met Montaigne and Phidias

in the flames of my wastebasket,

I have met barbarians on the streets

their heads rocking with rodents;

I have seen wicked infants in blue tubs

wanting stems as beautiful as flowers,

and I have seen the barfly sick

over his last dead penny;

I have heard Domenico Theotocopoulos

on nights of frost, cough in his grave;

and God, no taller than a landlady,

hair dyed red, has asked me the time;

I have seen grey grass of lovers in my mirror

while lighting a cigarette to a maniac’s applause;

Cadillacs have crawled my walls like roaches,

goldfish whirl my bowl, hand-tamed tigers;

yes, I have been painting these Sundays—

the grey mill, the new rebel; it’s terrible really:

I must ram my fist through cleanser and chlorine,

through Andernach and apples and acid,

but, then, I really should tell you that I have a

woman around mixing waffle flour and singing,

and the paint sticks to my plan like candy.

#1973 #AmericanWriters #BurningInWaterDrowningInFlame #ItCatchesMyHeartInItsHands

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