I broke an egg
soft boiled
watched the yolk
spread
in the whorehouse
of my soul
i thought
of my yolk
spread
over your breast
as I kneel
and urge
over
your sleeping
shape
my mess
your anger
limp disaster hung
itself
on my brittle facade
you left
exit by the door
i now look at
knowing
this egg will
not taste any better
Thank you so much Bukowski On Wry and all your readers , all the best
THE HOUSE
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985
They are building a house
half a block down
and I sit up here
with the shades down
listening to the sounds,
the hammers pounding in nails,
thack thack thack thack,
and then I hear birds,
and thack thack thack,
and I go to bed,
I pull the covers to my throat;
they have been building this house
for a month, and soon it will have
its people…sleeping, eating,
loving, moving around,
but somehow
now
it is not right,
there seems a madness,
men walk on top with nails
in their mouths
and I read about Castro and Cuba,
and at night I walk by
and the ribs of the house show
and inside I can see cats walking
the way cats walk,
and then a boy rides by on a bicycle
and still the house is not done
and in the morning the men
will be back
walking around on the house
with their hammers,
and it seems people should not build houses
anymore,
it seems people should not get married
anymore,
it seems people should stop working
and sit in small rooms
on 2nd floors
under electric lights without shades;
it seems there is a lot to forget
and a lot not to do,
and in drugstores, markets, bars,
the people are tired, they do not want
to move, and I stand there at night
and look through this house and the
house does not want to be built;
through its sides I can see the purple hills
and the first lights of evening,
and it is cold
and I button my coat
and I stand there looking through the house
and the cats stop and look at me
until I am embarrased
and move North up the sidewalk
where I will buy
cigarettes and beer
and return to my room.
Charles Bukowski’s home DeLongpre Avenue
from silken intervals of flesh
parting inevitable,
a vagrant blossom falls
upon a dusted road
the pink of a dying star
upon clad earth
brings no consolation
to icicles hung over
shallow grave,
filling the path to April
free winds follow
a creeping slope and
linger there,
can we remember the shade
and tulip bloom
cautious burning of butterfly
wing,
storms come in colored coats
indifferent to yesterday
pleasure not yet spoiled,
long fingers spread
over frozen labyrinths
iced buds squoze upon
the branches,
waxwing bows it’s head
brought by music
of a new chorus
winter will not be forgotten
Oxidized bent into alternate shape
steel formed and defined
by us one fall,
the old green blanket
dragged from Buick trunk,
beyond the sink and realtor hours,
arranged a promise to meet,
gold on fingers no restraint,
cool mist spread
as if to muffle those who knew us,
temptations touch was strong,
discreet parked,
sparse tree’s that would be acquainted
with color again in spring,
tremors and kisses,
only sounds our clothes
and hands as they spoke in undressing,
flesh tinted by greasy window light,
all yearning was concentrated
upon each each other not in love
but temptation and lust,
to know each other briefly
not eternally,
hearts cluttered with other worlds
of length and importance,
this was an only moment,
for her it would evaporate,
for me as i stand
then bow touching bent steel,
i remember that truly
wanting something unable to attain,
love had been a receding tide
and new island found
but that too had been consumed and lost,
and i was left with a memory
beneath graying folds of hair
who has that unshaken loneliness tonight
that is duller than four unlit windows,
no beacon so inspiration empty,
passing clouds have no light of stars
absolute is more than dark,
hot blood ceases to sing
on a black brittle brink i almost fell
forwards without calling,
yearning for a sound, yearning for light,
swept well with dust many corners filled,
my binds hold tight,
almost a stifled sacrifice my own voice
lessened in it’s force,
i would find another room
it would be a chamber
not of clattering chains,
but sparse filled in with a luminous flow
knowing if i let expression furrow a blank
page,
i can nestle in contented silence,
unshaken loneliness is falling
slowly a drape that tomorrow
will remove
velvetmedia 