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

spiders
    wonder if there will be one more
    woman
    now
    40,000 flies running the arms of my
    soul
    singing
    I met a million dollar baby in a
    5 and 10 cent
    store
    arms of my soul?
    flies?
    singing?
    what kind of shit is
    this?
    it’s so easy to be a poet
    and so hard to be
    a man.

the strangest thing
    I was sitting in a chair
    in the dark
    when horrible sounds of torture
    and fear
    began in the brush
    outside of my window.
    it was obviously not a male cat
    and a female cat
    but a male and a male
    and from the sound
    one appeared to be much larger
    and was attacking with the intent to
    kill.
    then it stopped.
    then it began again
    worse this time;
    the sounds were so terrible
    that I was unable to
    move.
    then the sounds stopped.
    I got up from my chair
    went to bed and
    slept.
    I had a dream. this small grey and white
    cat came to me in my dream
    and it was very
    sad. it spoke to me,
    it said:
    “look what the other cat did to me.”
    and it rested in my lap
    and I saw the slashes and
    the raw flesh. then it
    jumped off my lap.
    then that was all.
    I awakened at 8:45 p.m.
    put on my clothes and walked outside
    and looked around.
    there was nothing
    there.
    I walked back inside and
    dropped two eggs
    into a pot of water
    and turned up the
    flame.

the paper on the floor
    … the drawing is poor and I know little of the plot:
    a man with a stable, world-earned face and the necktie of
    respectability, and a satisfied pipe; and his wife—
    signified by the quick ink of black hair (just ever so
    tousled with having babies and guiding them safely through
    the falls): there is a grandmother who sits somewhat like
    a flowerpot: allotted an earned space but not really
    useful; and a couple of smiling, knee-climbing gamins
    two little Jung and Adlers
    full of moot, black-type questions,
    and, of course,
    a young girl troubled with young loves
    (they take these things so much more seriously than the
    young men who
    go behind the barn);
    and there is a young man---her, I presume barn-wise, brother
    with this great tundra, this shield of black hair;
    he is horribly healthy
    and dressed in the latest in sport shirts
    in the best barn-wise manner;
    this big… brother (16? 17? 18? God wot?)
    is usually (when I read this, which is not very often)
    leaning forward over the car seat
    (he sits in the back, like the author)
    and makes some… comment on LIFE, capital all-the-way LIFE
    that is so VERY true
    that it just… upsets everybody
    except the poor kiddies who don’t know what the hell it’s
    all about in spite of their Jung and Adler
    and they just ride along round-eyed and sucking at their
    lollypops all up in the pretty pure white clouds;
    but, lo, the headman grinds his pipe grey-faced against this
    sporty truth that old men let lie like overgrown
    gas-meter covers; and the mother (wife wot?) draws down
    a long black eyebrow and one more strand of hair becomes
    unattached in the cool long struggle; and
    Grandma, oh, I don’t know—
    by then I have looked away; but I remember the girl,
    the young girl with young loves
    is always especially angry
    because the back of the barn has been blamed on her…
    locked with René the Frenchman, the struggling… painter or
    wot?
    nobody wants to face it but this… fat… sports-wear shirt
    character (who is really a nice strong boy who will really 20
    be O.K. some day) keeps bringing the cow out from behind the
    barn
    with the bull; but he is young
    and laughs
    and all somehow bear up;
    but best is his… explanation of it all, of the cow and the bull,
    with the inherent and instinctive… wiseness of his youth;
    the explanation usually comes in the morning over the breakfast table—
    before all this sickly struggling ordinary mess of common…
    humanity has had a chance
    to seat itself
    the healthy white… face laughs and tells it all;
    he’s been sitting there waiting to tell it all,
    he’s been sitting there with the little… twins (or wot?)
    as they spill porridge so cutely with