Free Toca el piano borracho como un instrumento de percusión hasta que los dedos te empiecen a sangrar un poco by Charles Bukowski Page B

could beat me
    with chains or whips, whichever way
    I wanted it.
    I finished, paid up, left a tip,
    left the sex paper on the seat.
    then I walked back up Western Avenue
    with my belly hanging out over
    my belt.

the happy life of the tired
    neatly in tune with
    the song of a fish
    I stand in the kitchen
    halfway to madness
    dreaming of Hemingway’s
    Spain.
    it’s muggy, like they say,
    I can’t breathe,
    have crapped and
    read the sports pages,
    opened the refrigerator
    looked at a piece of purple
    meat,
    tossed it back
    in.
    the place to find the center
    is at the edge
    that pounding in the sky
    is just a water pipe
    vibrating.
    terrible things inch in the
    walls; cancer flowers grow
    on the porch; my white cat has
    one eye torn
    away and there are only 7 days
    of racing left in the
    summer meet.
    the dancer never arrived from the
    Club Normandy
    and Jimmy didn’t bring the
    hooker,
    but there’s a postcard from
    Arkansas
    and a throwaway from Food King:
    10 free vacations to Hawaii,
    all I got to do is
    fill out the form.
    but I don’t want to go to
    Hawaii.
    I want the hooker with the pelican eyes
    brass belly-button
    and
    ivory heart.
    I take out the piece of purple
    meat
    drop it into the
    pan.
    then the phone rings.
    I fall to one knee and roll under the
    table. I remain there
    until it
    stops.
    then I get up and
    turn on the
    radio.
    no wonder Hemingway was a
    drunk, Spain be damned,
    I can’t stand it
    either.
    it’s so
    muggy.

the proud thin dying
    I see old people on pensions in the
    supermarkets and they are thin and they are
    proud and they are dying
    they are starving on their feet and saying
    nothing. long ago, among other lies,
    they were taught that silence was
    bravery. now, having worked a lifetime,
    inflation has trapped them. they look around
    steal a grape
    chew on it. finally they make a tiny
    purchase, a day’s worth.
    another lie they were taught:
    thou shalt not steal.
    they’d rather starve than steal
    (one grape won’t save them)
    and in tiny rooms
    while reading the market ads
    they’ll starve
    they’ll die without a sound
    pulled out of roominghouses
    by young blond boys with long hair
    who’ll slide them in
    and pull away from the curb, these
    boys
    handsome of eye
    thinking of Vegas and pussy and
    victory.
    it’s the order of things: each one
    gets a taste of honey
    then the knife.

under
    I can’t pick anything up
    off the floor—
    old socks
    shorts
    shirts
    newspapers
    letters
    8 spoons bottles beercaps
    can’t make the bed
    hang up the toilet paper
    brush my teeth
    comb my hair
    dress
    I stay on the bed
    naked
    on the soiled sheets
    which are half on the
    floor
    the buttons on the mattress
    press into my
    back
    when the phone rings
    when somebody comes to the door
    I anger
    I’m like a bug under a rock
    with that fear too
    I stay in bed
    notice the mirror on the dresser
    it is a victory to scratch
    myself.

hot month
    got 3 women coming down in
    July, maybe more
    they want to suck my blood—
    vibes
    do I have enough
    clean towels?
    I told them that I was feeling
    bad
    (I didn’t expect all these
    mothers
    arriving with their tits
    distended)
    you see
    I am too good
    with the drunken letter
    and the drunken phonecall
    screaming for love
    when I probably don’t
    have it
    I am going out to buy more
    towels
    bedsheets
    Alka-Seltzer
    washrags
    mop handles
    mops
    swords
    knives
    bombs
    vaseline flowers of yearning
    the works of
    De Sade.

maybe tomorrow
    looked like
    Bogart
    sunken cheeks
    chain smoker
    pissed out of windows
    ignored women
    snarled at landlords
    rode boxcars through the badlands
    never missed a chance to duke it
    full of roominghouse and skidrow stories
    ribs showing
    flat belly
    walking in shoes with nails driving into his heels
    looking out of windows
    cigar in mouth
    lips wet with beer
    Bogart’s
    got a beard now
    he’s much older
    but don’t believe the gossip:
    Bogie’s not dead
    yet.

junk
    sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
    female.
    brown