Read Online New Poems Book Three by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Bukowski
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as
I sit and wait alone in this room.
FAREWELL, FAREWELL
the blade cuts down and through,
pulls out, enters again, twists.
this is the test so
spit it out, sucker, you’ve long ago
demonstrated your valor
in the face of this unhappy world, in the
face of this
bitterly unhappy world,
and who but a fool would want to
linger?
your little supply of good luck has been
used up so
spit it out, sucker:
the last goodbye is always the
sweetest.
ABOUT THE MAIL LATELY
I keep getting letters, more and more of
them wondering if I am really dead, they have
heard that I am dead.
well, I suppose that it’s my age and all
the drinking that I have done, still
do.
I should be dead.
I will be dead.
and I have never been too interested in
living, it has been hard work, slave
labor, still is.
I’ve been doing some thinking about
death of late and have come up with
one disturbing thought:
that death could be hard work too,
that maybe it’s another kind of trap.
it probably is.
meanwhile, like everybody else,
I do the things I do and I wait around.
I could use this poem as a reply letter
and mail out copies to those who write
me because they’ve heard that I am dead.
I will sign them to
give them legitimacy so that
the receivers can sell them to
collectors who can then resell them for
an even higher price to each other.
which reminds me that I no longer
receive letters from young ladies who
include nude photos and tell me that
they would love to come around and do
housework and lick my stamps.
they probably hope that I can’t get it up
any more.
in any event,
I’ll just continue to answer the death letters,
have another drink, smoke these
Jamaican cigars and hustle for my
rightful place in Classic American Literature
before I
stiffen up
kick the bucket
swallow the 8 ball
send up my last rocket
hustle into the dark
get the hell out
hang it up
and say my last goodbye while
clutching my
last uncashed
ticket.
LIFE ON THE HALF SHELL
the obvious is going to kill us,
the obvious is killing us.
our luck is used up.
as always, we regroup
and wait.
we haven’t forgotten how to
fight
but the long battle has made us
weary.
the obvious is going to kill us,
we are engulfed by the
obvious.
we allowed it.
we deserve it.
a hand moves in the
sky.
a freight train passes in the night.
the fences are broken.
the heart sits alone.
the obvious is going to kill us.
we wait, dreamless.
THE HARDEST
birthday for me was my 30th.
I didn’t want anybody to know.
I’d been sitting in the same bar
night and day
and I thought, how long am I going
to be
able to keep up this
bluff?
when am I going to give it up and
start acting like everybody
else?
I ordered another drink and
thought about it
and then the answer came to
me:
when you’re dead, baby, when
you’re dead like the rest of
them.
A TERRIBLE NEED
some people simply need to
be unhappy, they’ll scrounge it out
of any given situation
taking every opportunity
to point out
every simple error
or oversight
and then become
hateful
dissatisfied
vengeful.
don’t they realize that
there’s so little
time
for each of us
in this strange
life to make things
whole?
and to squander
our lives living
like that
is nearly
unforgiveable?
and that
there’s never
ever
any way
then
to recover
all that which will be
thus lost
forever?
BODY SLAM
Andre the Giant dead in his Paris
hotel room.
7 feet and 550 pounds, dead.
he used to wrestle.
he was a champion.
a week earlier he had attended
his father’s funeral.
Andre had been a kind soul who
liked to send flowers to people.
but dead he was a problem.
they had to carry him out of
there
and no casket would hold him.
now maybe he’d get some
flowers?
Andre the Giant
in Paris
wrestling with the Angel of
Death.
and the fix wasn’t in,
this
time.
THE GODS ARE GOOD
the poems keep getting better and
better
and I keep winning
I sit and wait alone in this room.
FAREWELL, FAREWELL
the blade cuts down and through,
pulls out, enters again, twists.
this is the test so
spit it out, sucker, you’ve long ago
demonstrated your valor
in the face of this unhappy world, in the
face of this
bitterly unhappy world,
and who but a fool would want to
linger?
your little supply of good luck has been
used up so
spit it out, sucker:
the last goodbye is always the
sweetest.
ABOUT THE MAIL LATELY
I keep getting letters, more and more of
them wondering if I am really dead, they have
heard that I am dead.
well, I suppose that it’s my age and all
the drinking that I have done, still
do.
I should be dead.
I will be dead.
and I have never been too interested in
living, it has been hard work, slave
labor, still is.
I’ve been doing some thinking about
death of late and have come up with
one disturbing thought:
that death could be hard work too,
that maybe it’s another kind of trap.
it probably is.
meanwhile, like everybody else,
I do the things I do and I wait around.
I could use this poem as a reply letter
and mail out copies to those who write
me because they’ve heard that I am dead.
I will sign them to
give them legitimacy so that
the receivers can sell them to
collectors who can then resell them for
an even higher price to each other.
which reminds me that I no longer
receive letters from young ladies who
include nude photos and tell me that
they would love to come around and do
housework and lick my stamps.
they probably hope that I can’t get it up
any more.
in any event,
I’ll just continue to answer the death letters,
have another drink, smoke these
Jamaican cigars and hustle for my
rightful place in Classic American Literature
before I
stiffen up
kick the bucket
swallow the 8 ball
send up my last rocket
hustle into the dark
get the hell out
hang it up
and say my last goodbye while
clutching my
last uncashed
ticket.
LIFE ON THE HALF SHELL
the obvious is going to kill us,
the obvious is killing us.
our luck is used up.
as always, we regroup
and wait.
we haven’t forgotten how to
fight
but the long battle has made us
weary.
the obvious is going to kill us,
we are engulfed by the
obvious.
we allowed it.
we deserve it.
a hand moves in the
sky.
a freight train passes in the night.
the fences are broken.
the heart sits alone.
the obvious is going to kill us.
we wait, dreamless.
THE HARDEST
birthday for me was my 30th.
I didn’t want anybody to know.
I’d been sitting in the same bar
night and day
and I thought, how long am I going
to be
able to keep up this
bluff?
when am I going to give it up and
start acting like everybody
else?
I ordered another drink and
thought about it
and then the answer came to
me:
when you’re dead, baby, when
you’re dead like the rest of
them.
A TERRIBLE NEED
some people simply need to
be unhappy, they’ll scrounge it out
of any given situation
taking every opportunity
to point out
every simple error
or oversight
and then become
hateful
dissatisfied
vengeful.
don’t they realize that
there’s so little
time
for each of us
in this strange
life to make things
whole?
and to squander
our lives living
like that
is nearly
unforgiveable?
and that
there’s never
ever
any way
then
to recover
all that which will be
thus lost
forever?
BODY SLAM
Andre the Giant dead in his Paris
hotel room.
7 feet and 550 pounds, dead.
he used to wrestle.
he was a champion.
a week earlier he had attended
his father’s funeral.
Andre had been a kind soul who
liked to send flowers to people.
but dead he was a problem.
they had to carry him out of
there
and no casket would hold him.
now maybe he’d get some
flowers?
Andre the Giant
in Paris
wrestling with the Angel of
Death.
and the fix wasn’t in,
this
time.
THE GODS ARE GOOD
the poems keep getting better and
better
and I keep winning
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