Free Come On In by Charles Bukowski Page B

bands in class, and outside they called
    me names, well, one name mainly, over and over,
    and on top of all that my parents were poor, I wore
    cardboard in my shoes to fill in the holes in the
    soles, my pants were patched, my shirts thread-
    bare; and even my teachers ganged up
    on me, they slammed my
    palm with rulers and sent me to the principal’s office as
    if I was really guilty of something;
    and, of course, the abuse kept coming from my classmates;
    I was stoned, beaten, pissed on;
    the little girls hissed and stuck their tongues out
    at me … 
    Fuch’s wife smiled sadly at Raymond: my poor darling husband had such
    a terrible childhood!
    (she was so beautiful it almost stunned one to look at
    her.) 
    Fuch looked at Raymond: hey, your glass is empty. 
    yeah, said Raymond. 
    Fuch touched a button and the English butler silently
    glided in. he nodded respectfully to Raymond and in his
    beautiful accent asked, another drink, sir? 
    yes, please, Raymond answered.

    the butler went off to prepare the drink. 
    what hurt most, of course, continued Fuch, was the name-
    calling. 
    Raymond asked, have you never forgotten it? 
    I did for a while, but then strangely I began to
    miss the abuse … 
    the butler returned carrying Raymond’s
    drink on a silver tray. 
    here is your drink, sir, said the butler. 
    thank you, said Raymond, taking it off the tray. 
    o.k., Paul, Fuch said to the butler, you can
    start now. 
    now? asked the butler. 
    now, came the answer. 
    the butler stood in front of Fuch and screamed:
    fucky- boy! fucky- baby! fuck- face! fuck- brain!
    where did your name come from, fuck- head?
    how come you’re such a fuck- up?
    etc…. 

    they all started laughing uncontrollably
    as the butler delivered his tirade in that
    beautiful British accent. 
    they couldn’t stop laughing, they fell out of their
    chairs and got down on the rug, pounding it and
    laughing, Fuch, his lovely young wife and Raymond
    in that sprawling mansion overlooking the shining sea. 

I dreamt
    that I was
    in my room 
    having been
    shot in the belly
    by some tart. 
    snakes crawled the
    floor 
    while outside
    a schoolmaster
    sang
    an old school
    song
    then 
    the curtains
    went up in
    flame 
    the phone
    rang 
    everything
    seemed
    in a hurry
    to die 
    so I
    decided to
    die

    which made all the
    bad poets
    happy
    and all the good poets
    glad 
    as they
    rushed in
    to fill
    the vacancy 
    then the dream
    was
    over 
    I awakened
    and I was 
    the Bad Boy
    of poetry 
    all over
    again. 

the old couple next door
    they were an old couple
    and she slept with her
    head at one end of the
    bed
    and he with his head
    at the other
    end.
    they explained that
    in case somebody
    came in to murder
    them
    at least one of them
    would have a
    better chance to
    escape. 
    when he died
    she had a stuffed replica
    made of his
    body
    and she slept with
    her head at one end
    of the bed
    and the replica’s
    head was down at the
    other. 
    and just like in the
    past,
    at least once every
    night, 

    she would awaken
    in a fury and
    scream,
    “STOP
    THAT
    GODDAMNED
    SNORING!” 

men without women
    finally,
    goaded by the high price of
    female relationships
    he lashed his ankles to the
    bedpoles
    and tried to reach his
    own
    penis
    with his
    mouth:
    close but no
    cigar.
    another of
    nature’s dirty
    tricks. 
    finally, in a
    fury, he gave it a last
    mad
    attempt. 
    something cracked in his
    back
    and a blue flame
    engulfed his
    brain. 
    after 45 minutes of
    agony
    he got himself off
    the bed, 

    found he couldn’t stand
    straight.
    each time he tried
    a hundred knives cut
    into both his back and
    his soul. 
    the next day
    he managed to drive to
    the doctor’s
    office
    bent low over the
    steering wheel
    barely able to
    see through the
    windshield. 
    “how did you do this?”
    the
    doctor
    asked. 
    he told the doctor
    the honest
    truth
    because he felt
    that an informed
    diagnosis
    was the only chance
    for a