Read Online The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online

problem is, it’s there, and worse, it
    shouldn’t be
    for I have been a lucky man, I shouldn’t even
    be here
    after all I have done to myself
    and after all they have done
    to me
    I ought to be kneeling to the gods and giving
    thanks.
    instead, I deride their kindness by being
    impatient
    with the world.
    maybe a damned good night’s sleep will bring me back
    to a gentle sanity.
    but at the moment, I look about this room and, like
    myself, it’s all in disarray: things fallen
    out of place, cluttered, jumbled, lost, knocked
    over, and I can’t put it straight, don’t
    want to.
 
    perhaps living through these petty days will get us ready
    for the dangerous ones.

eyeless through space
     
     
    it’s no longer any good, sucker, they’ve
    turned out the lights, they’ve
    blocked the rear entrance
    and
    the front’s on fire;
    nobody knows your name;
    down at the opera they play
    checkers;
    the city fountains piss
    blood;
    the extremities are reamed
    and
    they’ve hung the best
    barber;
    the dim souls have ascended;
    the cardboard souls smile;
    the love of dung is unanimous;
    it’s no longer any good, sucker, the
    graves have emptied out onto the
    living;
    last is first,
    lost is everything;
    the giant dogs mourn through dandelion
    dreams;
    the panthers welcome cages;
    the onion heart is frosted,
    destiny is destitute,
    the horns of reason are muted as
    the laughter of fools blockades the air;
    the champions are dead
    and
    the newly born are smitten;
    the jetliners vomit the eyeless through
    space;
    it’s no longer any good, sucker, it’s been
    getting to that
    right along
    and now
    it’s here
    and you can’t touch it smell it see it
    because it’s nothing everywhere as
    you look up or down or turn or sit or stand
    or sleep or run,
    it’s no longer any good, sucker.
    it’s no longer any good
    sucker sucker sucker
    and
    if you don’t already know
    I’m not surprised
    and
    if you do, sucker, good
    luck
    in the dark
    going nowhere.

tag up and hold
     
     
    not much chance in
    Amsterdam;
    cheese dislikes the
    flea;
    the center fielder
    turns
    runs back
    in his stupid
    uniform,
    times it all
    perfectly:
    ball and man
    arriving as
    one
    he
    gloves it
    precisely
    in tune with the
    universe;
    not much chance in
    east
    Kansas City;
    and
    have you noticed
    how
    men stand
    side by side
    in urinals,
    trained in the
    act,
    looking straight
    ahead;
    the center fielder
    wings it
    into the
    cut-off
    man
    who eyes the
    runners;
    the sun plunges
    down
    as somewhere
    an old
    woman
    opens a window
    looks at a
    geranium,
    goes for a cup of
    water;
    not much chance in
    New York City
 
    or
    in the look
    of the eye
    of
    the man
    who sits in a
    chair
    across from
    you
 
    he is
    going
    to ask you
    certain
    questions about
    certain
    things
 
    especially
    about
 
    what to
    do
 
    without
    much chance.

upon this time
     
     
    fine then, thunderclaps at midnight, death in the
    plaza.
    my shoes need shining.
    my typewriter is silent.
 
    I write this in pen
    in an old yellow
    notebook
    while
    leaning propped up against the wall
    behind the
    bed.
 
    Hemingway said, “it won’t come
    anymore.”
    later—the gun
    into the
    mouth.
 
    not writing is not good
    but trying to write
    when you can’t is
    worse.
 
    hey, I have excuses:
    I have TB and the
    antibiotics dull the
    brain.
 
    “you’ll write again,” people
    assure me, “you’ll be
    better than
    ever.”
 
    that’s nice to know.
    but the typewriter is silent
    and it looks at
    me.
 
    meanwhile, every two or three
    weeks
    I get a fan letter in the mail
    telling me that
    surely
    I must be
    the world’s greatest
    writer.
 
    but
    the typewriter is silent
    and looks at
    me….
 
    this is one of the
    strangest times
    of my
    life.
 
    I’ve got to do a
    Lazarus
    and I can’t even
    shine
    my shoes.

Downtown Billy
     
     
    they used to call him
    “Downtown” Billy.
 
    “Downtown” had these
    long arms
    and he swung them
    with
    abandon
    and with