Verdi
and
so
we suck on a cigar
and a beer
attempting to mend the love
wounds of the soul.
beer.
cigar.
listen to Verdi
scratch my hindquarters
and
stare out of
cloud of
blue
smoke.
have you ever been to
Venice?
Madrid?
the stress of continually facing the
lowered
horn
is wearing.
then too
sometimes think of a
less stressful kind of
love—
can and should be so
easy
like falling asleep
in a chair or
like a church full of
windows.
sad enough,
wish only for that careless love
which is sweet
gentle
and which is
now
like
this light
over my head)
there only to serve me
while I
smoke smoke smoke
out of a certain center dressed
in an old brown shirt.
but I am caught under a pile of
bricks;
poetry is shot in the head
and walks down the alley
pissing on its legs.
friends, stop writing of
breathing
in this sky of fire.
small c hildren,
walk well behind us.
but now Verdi
abides with the
wallpaper
with beerlove,
with the taste of wet gold as
my fingers dabble in ashes
as strange young ladies walk outside
my window
dreaming of broomsticks,
palaces
and
blueberry pie.
Autres oeuvres par Charles Bukowski...
