Read Online Toca el piano borracho como un instrumento de percusión hasta que los dedos te empiecen a sangrar un poco by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Bukowski
Tags: Poesía
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and when I came back
he was still playing, and he was still playing
after Boomerang won the 4th.
nobody stopped him
nobody asked him what he was doing
nobody applauded.
after Pawee won the 5th
he continued
the music falling over the edge of the
grandstand and into the
wind and sun.
Stars and Stripes won the 6th
and he played some more
and Staunch Hope got up on the inside
to take the 7th
and the violin player worked away
and when Lucky Mike won at 4 to 5 in the 8th
he was still making music.
after Dumpty’s Goddess took the last
and they began their long slow walk to their cars
beaten and broke again
the violin player continued
sending his music after them
and I sat there listening
we were both alone up there and
when he finished I applauded.
the violin player stood up
faced me and bowed.
then he put his fiddle in the case
got up and walked down the stairway.
I allowed him a few minutes
and then I got up
and began the long slow walk to my car.
it was getting into evening.
5 dollars
I am dying of sadness and alcohol
he said to me over the bottle
on a soft Thursday afternoon
in an old hotel room by the train depot.
I have, he went on, betrayed myself with
belief, deluded myself with love
tricked myself with sex.
the bottle is damned faithful, he said,
the bottle will not lie.
meat is cut as roses are cut
men die as dogs die
love dies like dogs die,
he said.
listen, Ronny, I said,
lend me 5 dollars.
love needs too much help, he said.
hate takes care of itself.
just 5 dollars, Ronny.
hate contains truth. beauty is a facade.
I’ll pay you back in a week.
stick with the thorn
stick with the bottle
stick with the voices of old men in hotel rooms.
I ain’t had a decent meal, Ronny, for a
couple of days.
stick with the laughter and horror of death.
keep the butterfat out.
get lean, get ready.
something in my gut, Ronny, I’ll be able
to face it.
to die alone and ready and unsurprised,
that’s the trick.
Ronny, listen—
that majestic weeping you hear
will not be for
us.
I suppose not, Ronny.
the lies of centuries, the lies of love,
the lies of Socrates and Blake and Christ
will be your bedmates and tombstones
in a death that will never end.
Ronny, my poems came back from the
New York Quarterly.
that is why they weep,
without knowing.
is that what all that noise is, I said,
my god shit.
cooperation
she means well.
play the piano
she says
it’s not good for you
not to write.
she’s going for a walk
on the island
or a boatride.
I believe she’s taken a modern novel
and her reading glasses.
I sit at the window
with her electric typewriter
and watch young girls’ asses
which are attached to
young girls.
the final decadence.
I have 20 published books
and 6 cans of beer.
the tourists bob up and down in the water
the tourists walk and talk and take
photographs and
drink soft drinks.
it’s not good for me not to
write.
she’s in a boat now, a
sightseeing tour
and she’s thinking, looking
at the waves—
“it’s 2:30 p.m.
he must be writing
it’s not good for him not to write.
tonight there will be other things to do.
I hope he doesn’t drink
too much beer. he’s a much better
lover than Robert was
and the sea is beautiful.”
the night I was going to die
the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside
and I could feel my soul dropping down through the
mattress
and just before it hit the floor I jumped up
I was almost too weak to walk
but I walked around and turned on all the lights
then made it back to the bed
and again my soul dropped down through the mattress
and I leaped up
just before it hit the floor
I walked around and I turned on all the lights
and then I went back to bed
and down it dropped again and
I was up
turning on all the lights
I had a 7 year old daughter
and I felt sure she didn’t want me dead
otherwise
he was still playing, and he was still playing
after Boomerang won the 4th.
nobody stopped him
nobody asked him what he was doing
nobody applauded.
after Pawee won the 5th
he continued
the music falling over the edge of the
grandstand and into the
wind and sun.
Stars and Stripes won the 6th
and he played some more
and Staunch Hope got up on the inside
to take the 7th
and the violin player worked away
and when Lucky Mike won at 4 to 5 in the 8th
he was still making music.
after Dumpty’s Goddess took the last
and they began their long slow walk to their cars
beaten and broke again
the violin player continued
sending his music after them
and I sat there listening
we were both alone up there and
when he finished I applauded.
the violin player stood up
faced me and bowed.
then he put his fiddle in the case
got up and walked down the stairway.
I allowed him a few minutes
and then I got up
and began the long slow walk to my car.
it was getting into evening.
5 dollars
I am dying of sadness and alcohol
he said to me over the bottle
on a soft Thursday afternoon
in an old hotel room by the train depot.
I have, he went on, betrayed myself with
belief, deluded myself with love
tricked myself with sex.
the bottle is damned faithful, he said,
the bottle will not lie.
meat is cut as roses are cut
men die as dogs die
love dies like dogs die,
he said.
listen, Ronny, I said,
lend me 5 dollars.
love needs too much help, he said.
hate takes care of itself.
just 5 dollars, Ronny.
hate contains truth. beauty is a facade.
I’ll pay you back in a week.
stick with the thorn
stick with the bottle
stick with the voices of old men in hotel rooms.
I ain’t had a decent meal, Ronny, for a
couple of days.
stick with the laughter and horror of death.
keep the butterfat out.
get lean, get ready.
something in my gut, Ronny, I’ll be able
to face it.
to die alone and ready and unsurprised,
that’s the trick.
Ronny, listen—
that majestic weeping you hear
will not be for
us.
I suppose not, Ronny.
the lies of centuries, the lies of love,
the lies of Socrates and Blake and Christ
will be your bedmates and tombstones
in a death that will never end.
Ronny, my poems came back from the
New York Quarterly.
that is why they weep,
without knowing.
is that what all that noise is, I said,
my god shit.
cooperation
she means well.
play the piano
she says
it’s not good for you
not to write.
she’s going for a walk
on the island
or a boatride.
I believe she’s taken a modern novel
and her reading glasses.
I sit at the window
with her electric typewriter
and watch young girls’ asses
which are attached to
young girls.
the final decadence.
I have 20 published books
and 6 cans of beer.
the tourists bob up and down in the water
the tourists walk and talk and take
photographs and
drink soft drinks.
it’s not good for me not to
write.
she’s in a boat now, a
sightseeing tour
and she’s thinking, looking
at the waves—
“it’s 2:30 p.m.
he must be writing
it’s not good for him not to write.
tonight there will be other things to do.
I hope he doesn’t drink
too much beer. he’s a much better
lover than Robert was
and the sea is beautiful.”
the night I was going to die
the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside
and I could feel my soul dropping down through the
mattress
and just before it hit the floor I jumped up
I was almost too weak to walk
but I walked around and turned on all the lights
then made it back to the bed
and again my soul dropped down through the mattress
and I leaped up
just before it hit the floor
I walked around and I turned on all the lights
and then I went back to bed
and down it dropped again and
I was up
turning on all the lights
I had a 7 year old daughter
and I felt sure she didn’t want me dead
otherwise
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