Read Online Mockingbird Wish Me Luck by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Bukowski
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through air
like mad
clowns…
the orchestra quit
playing.
“It’s the BOMB! THE
BOMB!” somebody
screamed. the bomb the bomb the bomb
the bomb.
I grabbed a fat blonde
tore her dress away,
gotterdammerung !
“I don’t want to
die!” said the
blonde. the whole opera house was
coming down. blood on the
floor. more flame.
smoke. smoke. screaming. it was
terrible. I stuck it
in.
a man’s woman
the dream of a man
is a whore with a gold tooth
and a garter belt,
perfumed
with false eyebrows
mascara
earrings
light pink panties
salami breath
high heels
long stockings with a very slight
run on back of left stocking,
a little bit fat,
a little bit drunk,
a little bit silly and a little bit crazy
who doesn’t tell dirty jokes
and has 3 warts on her back
and pretends to enjoy symphony music
and who will stay a week
just one week
and wash the dishes and cook and fuck and suck
and scrub the kitchen floor
and not show any photos of her children
or talk about her x-husband or husband
or where she went to school or where she was born
or why she went to jail last time
or who she’s in love with,
just stay one week
just one week
and do the thing and go and never come
back
for that one earring on the dresser.
tight pink dress
I read where this 44 year old soprano of some fame
fell out of a 4 story window
and killed herself, well, I suppose this is all right
for sopranos of some fame, but
I think that 8 stories is more
reasonable.
I know this woman, a sister of the mother of my
child, some years back
her husband divorced her
and she jumped out of a 4 story window
and broke both legs
and other assorted parts.
maybe that soprano just wasn’t as tough as she was;
well, Helen got over the broken leg and parts,
and she came around one day to my place in a nice tight
pink dress, and we were alone but
nothing happened, I didn’t want it to,
and we talked
and now she is really married to something,
one of the most obnoxious souls
that I know…
“he plays the flute,” says the mother of my child,
“they get along…”
he came to see me one time and I ran him out the door:
he packed death around with him like breath chasers.
I’ve advised her to go 12 stories high
when this one fails…
I should have taken her the day she arrived in her
tight pink dress…
this guy and his flute…
he probably shits flutes…
and Helen with all that money, you think she might have
done better.
more or less, for julie :
on the Hammond or through the bomb-shadowed window,
through steak turned blue with the rot of drunken days,
through signature and saliva
through Savannah,
dark running streets like veins
caught in a juniper brush, through love spilled
behind a broken shade on an October day;
through forms and windows and lines,
through a book by Kafka stained with wine,
through wives and friends and jails,
standing young once
hearing Beethoven or Bruckner,
or even riding a bicycle,
young as that,
impossible,
coming across the bridge
in Philadelphia
and meeting your first whore,
falling on the ice, drunk and numbed,
you picking up she, she picking up he,
until at last, laughing across all barriers,
no marriage was ever more innocent or blessed,
and I remember her name and yes her eyes,
and a small mole on her left shoulder,
and so we go down, down in sadness, sadness,
sitting in a grease-stained room
listening to the corn boil.
this is the way it goes and goes and goes
“ All your writing about pain and suffering is a bunch of bullshit .”—
just because I told you that rock music
hurts my head
just because we have slept and awakened and
eaten together
just because we’ve been in cars and at racetracks
together
in parks in bathtubs in rooms
together
just because we’ve seen the same swan and the same
dog at the same time
just because we’ve seen the same wind blow the
like mad
clowns…
the orchestra quit
playing.
“It’s the BOMB! THE
BOMB!” somebody
screamed. the bomb the bomb the bomb
the bomb.
I grabbed a fat blonde
tore her dress away,
gotterdammerung !
“I don’t want to
die!” said the
blonde. the whole opera house was
coming down. blood on the
floor. more flame.
smoke. smoke. screaming. it was
terrible. I stuck it
in.
a man’s woman
the dream of a man
is a whore with a gold tooth
and a garter belt,
perfumed
with false eyebrows
mascara
earrings
light pink panties
salami breath
high heels
long stockings with a very slight
run on back of left stocking,
a little bit fat,
a little bit drunk,
a little bit silly and a little bit crazy
who doesn’t tell dirty jokes
and has 3 warts on her back
and pretends to enjoy symphony music
and who will stay a week
just one week
and wash the dishes and cook and fuck and suck
and scrub the kitchen floor
and not show any photos of her children
or talk about her x-husband or husband
or where she went to school or where she was born
or why she went to jail last time
or who she’s in love with,
just stay one week
just one week
and do the thing and go and never come
back
for that one earring on the dresser.
tight pink dress
I read where this 44 year old soprano of some fame
fell out of a 4 story window
and killed herself, well, I suppose this is all right
for sopranos of some fame, but
I think that 8 stories is more
reasonable.
I know this woman, a sister of the mother of my
child, some years back
her husband divorced her
and she jumped out of a 4 story window
and broke both legs
and other assorted parts.
maybe that soprano just wasn’t as tough as she was;
well, Helen got over the broken leg and parts,
and she came around one day to my place in a nice tight
pink dress, and we were alone but
nothing happened, I didn’t want it to,
and we talked
and now she is really married to something,
one of the most obnoxious souls
that I know…
“he plays the flute,” says the mother of my child,
“they get along…”
he came to see me one time and I ran him out the door:
he packed death around with him like breath chasers.
I’ve advised her to go 12 stories high
when this one fails…
I should have taken her the day she arrived in her
tight pink dress…
this guy and his flute…
he probably shits flutes…
and Helen with all that money, you think she might have
done better.
more or less, for julie :
on the Hammond or through the bomb-shadowed window,
through steak turned blue with the rot of drunken days,
through signature and saliva
through Savannah,
dark running streets like veins
caught in a juniper brush, through love spilled
behind a broken shade on an October day;
through forms and windows and lines,
through a book by Kafka stained with wine,
through wives and friends and jails,
standing young once
hearing Beethoven or Bruckner,
or even riding a bicycle,
young as that,
impossible,
coming across the bridge
in Philadelphia
and meeting your first whore,
falling on the ice, drunk and numbed,
you picking up she, she picking up he,
until at last, laughing across all barriers,
no marriage was ever more innocent or blessed,
and I remember her name and yes her eyes,
and a small mole on her left shoulder,
and so we go down, down in sadness, sadness,
sitting in a grease-stained room
listening to the corn boil.
this is the way it goes and goes and goes
“ All your writing about pain and suffering is a bunch of bullshit .”—
just because I told you that rock music
hurts my head
just because we have slept and awakened and
eaten together
just because we’ve been in cars and at racetracks
together
in parks in bathtubs in rooms
together
just because we’ve seen the same swan and the same
dog at the same time
just because we’ve seen the same wind blow the
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