DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 57): SEAHORSE

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hanker82

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

x

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 57)

x

SEAHORSE

x

hc2

x

I own the ticks on a horse
I own his belly and balls
I own this
the way his eyes roll
the way he eats hay
and shits and
stands up asleep

he is mine
this machine
like a blue train I used to play with
when my hands were smaller
and my mind better

I own this horse,
someday I will ride my horse
down all the streets
past the trees we will go
up the mountain
down the valley

ticks and eyes and balls
the both of us
we will go to where kings eat
dandelions
in the giant sea
where thinking is not terror
where eyes do not go out
like Saturday night children

the horse I own and the myself I own
will become blue and nice and clean
again

and I will get off and
wait for you.

x

hc112

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 56): BLUE COLLAR SOLITUDE

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hanker33

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

x

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 56)

x

BLUE COLLAR SOLITUDE

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hanker35

x

Picking up two six-packs
after work
to hell with dinner
going to the apartment
and stripping down
to your shorts
throwing your clothes
on the floor
climbing onto the bed
no shower
no bath
sitting up against
the pillow
and cracking open
the first tall beer can
lighting a cigarette
nothing to do
nobody to talk to
looking at the wallpaper
yesterday’s dishes
stacked in the sink
look out the window
the room getting darker
open the second can
of beer
no wife
no tv
no children

sitting in your
underwear
drinking beer
alone

everything’s gone
the foreman
the time clock
the grocery store clerks
the newspaper
the coffee shops

the phone rings
you listen
and listen and
listen

until it stops

another beer

hearing the breath
whistle up your
nostrils

wiggling the right
toe

watching
it.

x

hanker42

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 55): LETTER FROM TOO FAR

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bukkk2

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

x

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 55)

x

LETTER FROM TOO FAR

x

hc10

x

She wrote me a letter from a small

room near the Seine.

she said she was going to dancing

class, she got up, she said

at 5 o’clock in the morning

and typed at poemsor painted

and when she felt like crying

she had a special bench 

by the river.

xx

her book of Songs

would be out

in the Fall.

x

I did not know what to tell her 

but

I told her

to get any bad teeth pulled

and be careful of the French

lover.

x

I put her photo by the radio

near the fan

and it moved

like something

alive.

x

I sat and watched it

until I had smoked the

5 or 6

cigarettes left.

x

then I got up

and went to bed.

x

aaa 3
x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 54): I AM DEAD BUT I KNOW THE DEAD ARE NOT LIKE THIS

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hc45

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

x

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 54)

x

I AM DEAD BUT I KNOW THE DEAD

ARE NOT LIKE THIS

x

hc47

x

The dead can sleep
they don’t get up and rage
they don’t have a wife.

her white face
like a flower in a closed window lifts up and
looks at me.

the curtain smokes a cigarette
and a moth dies in a
freeway cash
as I examine the shadows of my
hands.

an owl, the size of a baby clock
rings for me, come on come on
it says as Jerusalem is hustled
down crotch-stained halls.

the 5 a.m. grass is nasal now
in hums of battleships and valleys
in the raped light that brings on
the fascist birds.

I put out the lamp and get in bed
beside her, she thinks I’m there
mumbles a rosy gratitude
as I stretch my legs
to coffin length
get in and swim away
from frogs and fortunes.

x

aaa 3

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DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 53): WHAT THEY WANT

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hc101

x

DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

x

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 53)

x

WHAT THEY WANT

x

hc19

x

Vallejo writing about
loneliness while starving to
death;
Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a
whore;
Rimbaud running off to Africa
to look for gold and finding
an incurable case of syphilis;
Beethoven gone deaf;
Pound dragged through the streets
in a cage;
Chatterton taking rat poison;
Hemingway’s brains dropping into
the orange juice;
Pascal cutting his wrists
in the bathtub;
Artaud locked up with the mad;
Dostoevsky stood up against a wall;
Crane jumping into a boat propeller;
Lorca shot in the road by Spanish
troops;
Berryman jumping off a bridge;
Burroughs shooting his wife;
Mailer knifing his.
—that’s what they want:
a God damned show
a lit billboard
in the middle of hell.
that’s what they want,
that bunch of
dull
inarticulate
safe
dreary
admirers of
carnivals.

x

buk3

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