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 Page B
Authors: Charles Bukowski
Tags: Poesía
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he was sitting in his chair
with a burlap rug over his
lap
and when they walked in
the first thing he said was
“Don’t touch my cock!”
he had a gallon jug of
zinfandel in his
refrigerator, had just gotten off
of
5 days of
tequila.
a new $600 piano was in the center of
the room,
he’d bought it for his
son.
he’s always phoning for me to come over
but when I do
he’s very dull. he agrees with
everything I say and
then he goes to
sleep.
Solid State Marty.
when I’m not there
he does everything:
sets fire to the couch
pisses on his belly
sings the National Anthem.
he gets call girls over and
squirts them with
seltzer water, he
rips the telephone wire out
of the wall
but before he does
he telephones
Paris
Madrid
Tokyo
he beats dogs
cats
people
with his
silver crutch
he tells stories about
how he was a
matador
a boxer
a pimp
a friend of Ernie’s
a friend of Picasso
but when I come over
he goes to sleep
upright in his chair
grey hair rumbling down over
the silent
dumb hawk face
his son starts talking
and then it’s time
for me
to go.
interviews
young men from the underground
newspapers and the small circulation
magazines come
more and more often
to interview me—
their hair is long
they are thin
have tape recorders and
arrive with
much beer.
most
of them
manage to stay some hours and
get intoxicated.
if one of my girlfriends is around
I get her to do the
talking.
go ahead, I say, tell them the
truth about me.
then they tell what they think is
the truth.
they paint me to resemble the
idiot
which is true.
then I’m questioned:
why did you stop writing for ten
years?
I don’t know.
how come you didn’t get into the
army?
crazy.
can you speak German?
no.
who are your favorite modern
writers?
I don’t know.
I seldom see the
interviews. although once one of
the young men wrote back that
my girlfriend had
kissed him
when I was in the bathroom.
you got off easy, I wrote back
and by the way
forget that shit I told you about
Dos Passos. or was it
Mailer? it’s hot tonight
and half the neighborhood is
drunk. the other half is
dead.
if I have any advice about writing
poetry, it’s—
don’t. I’m going to send out for
some fried chicken.
buk
face of a political candidate on a street billboard
there he is:
not too many hangovers
not too many fights with women
not too many flat tires
never a thought of suicide
not more than three toothaches
never missed a meal
never in jail
never in love
7 pairs of shoes
a son in college
a car one year old
insurance policies
a very green lawn
garbage cans with tight lids
he’ll be elected.
Yankee Doodle
I was young
no stomach
arms of wire
but strong
I arrived drunk at the factory
every morning
and out-worked the whole pack of them
without strain
the old guy
his name was Sully
good old Irish Sully
he fumbled with screws
and whistled the same song all day
long:
Yankee Doodle came to town
Ridin’ on a pony
He stuck a feather in his hat
And called it macaroni…
they say he had been whistling that song
for years
I began whistling right along
with him
we whistled together for hours
him counting screws
me packing 8 foot long light fixtures into
coffin boxes
as the days went on
he began to pale and tremble
he’d miss a note now and then
I whistled on
he began to miss days
then he missed a week
next I knew
the word got out
Sully was in a hospital for an
operation
2 weeks later he came in with a cane
and his wife
he shook hands with everybody
a 40 year man
when they had the retirement party for him
I missed it
because of a terrible
hangover
after he was gone
oddly
I kept looking for him,
and I realized that he had
never hated me, that I
had only hated
him
I began drinking more
missing more days
then they let me go
too
I’ve never minded getting
fired but that was the one time
I felt it.
blue moon, oh bleweeww
with a burlap rug over his
lap
and when they walked in
the first thing he said was
“Don’t touch my cock!”
he had a gallon jug of
zinfandel in his
refrigerator, had just gotten off
of
5 days of
tequila.
a new $600 piano was in the center of
the room,
he’d bought it for his
son.
he’s always phoning for me to come over
but when I do
he’s very dull. he agrees with
everything I say and
then he goes to
sleep.
Solid State Marty.
when I’m not there
he does everything:
sets fire to the couch
pisses on his belly
sings the National Anthem.
he gets call girls over and
squirts them with
seltzer water, he
rips the telephone wire out
of the wall
but before he does
he telephones
Paris
Madrid
Tokyo
he beats dogs
cats
people
with his
silver crutch
he tells stories about
how he was a
matador
a boxer
a pimp
a friend of Ernie’s
a friend of Picasso
but when I come over
he goes to sleep
upright in his chair
grey hair rumbling down over
the silent
dumb hawk face
his son starts talking
and then it’s time
for me
to go.
interviews
young men from the underground
newspapers and the small circulation
magazines come
more and more often
to interview me—
their hair is long
they are thin
have tape recorders and
arrive with
much beer.
most
of them
manage to stay some hours and
get intoxicated.
if one of my girlfriends is around
I get her to do the
talking.
go ahead, I say, tell them the
truth about me.
then they tell what they think is
the truth.
they paint me to resemble the
idiot
which is true.
then I’m questioned:
why did you stop writing for ten
years?
I don’t know.
how come you didn’t get into the
army?
crazy.
can you speak German?
no.
who are your favorite modern
writers?
I don’t know.
I seldom see the
interviews. although once one of
the young men wrote back that
my girlfriend had
kissed him
when I was in the bathroom.
you got off easy, I wrote back
and by the way
forget that shit I told you about
Dos Passos. or was it
Mailer? it’s hot tonight
and half the neighborhood is
drunk. the other half is
dead.
if I have any advice about writing
poetry, it’s—
don’t. I’m going to send out for
some fried chicken.
buk
face of a political candidate on a street billboard
there he is:
not too many hangovers
not too many fights with women
not too many flat tires
never a thought of suicide
not more than three toothaches
never missed a meal
never in jail
never in love
7 pairs of shoes
a son in college
a car one year old
insurance policies
a very green lawn
garbage cans with tight lids
he’ll be elected.
Yankee Doodle
I was young
no stomach
arms of wire
but strong
I arrived drunk at the factory
every morning
and out-worked the whole pack of them
without strain
the old guy
his name was Sully
good old Irish Sully
he fumbled with screws
and whistled the same song all day
long:
Yankee Doodle came to town
Ridin’ on a pony
He stuck a feather in his hat
And called it macaroni…
they say he had been whistling that song
for years
I began whistling right along
with him
we whistled together for hours
him counting screws
me packing 8 foot long light fixtures into
coffin boxes
as the days went on
he began to pale and tremble
he’d miss a note now and then
I whistled on
he began to miss days
then he missed a week
next I knew
the word got out
Sully was in a hospital for an
operation
2 weeks later he came in with a cane
and his wife
he shook hands with everybody
a 40 year man
when they had the retirement party for him
I missed it
because of a terrible
hangover
after he was gone
oddly
I kept looking for him,
and I realized that he had
never hated me, that I
had only hated
him
I began drinking more
missing more days
then they let me go
too
I’ve never minded getting
fired but that was the one time
I felt it.
blue moon, oh bleweeww
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