the gods have ways of
telling you things
when you think you know
a lot
or worse
when you think
you know
just a
little
Charles Bukowski
pretty sure this is from a poem in War All the Time; I will update it with the poem name later when I get time to check it.
(via elhippiemoonbear)
some dogs who sleep at night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you
drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you’ve been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here’s a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.
you know
it was very good
it was
better than
anything
it was like
something
we could
pick up
hold
look at
and then laugh
about.
we were on the
moon
we were in the moon
god damned moon,
we had it
we were in the garden
we were in the
endless pit
never such a place
as that
it was deep
and
it was light
and
it was high
it got so near
to insanity
we laughed so
hard
your laughter
and
mine
I remember when
your eyes
said love
loudly
now
as these walls
so quietly
shift.
I liked it coming out of that expensive
cafe in Germany
that rainy night
some of the ladies had learned that I
was in there
and as I walked out well-fed and
intoxicated
the ladies waved
placards
and screamed at me
but all I recognized was my name.
I asked a German friend what they were
saying.
“they hate you,” he told me,
“they belong to the German Female
Liberation Movement…”
I stood and watched them, they were
beautiful and screaming, I
loved them all, I laughed, waved,
blew them kisses.
then my friend, my publisher and my
girlfriend got me into the car; the
engine started, the windshield wipers
began thrashing
and as we drove off in the rain
I looked back
watched them standing in that
terrible weather
waving their placards and their
fists.
it was nice to be recognized
in the country of my birth, that
was what mattered
most…
ΔΔΔ
back at the hotel room
opening bottles of wine
with my friends
I missed them,
those angry wet
passionate ladies
of the night.
