Читать книгу Essential Bukowski: Poetry - Чарльз Буковски, Abel Debritto - Страница 11

Hugo Wolf went mad while eating an onion

and writing his 253rd song; it was rainy

April and the worms came out of the ground

humming Tannhãuser, and he spilled his milk

with his ink, and his blood fell out to the walls

and he howled and he roared and he screamed, and

down-

stairs his landlady said, I knew it, that rotten son of a bitch has dummied up his brain, he’s jacked-off his last piece of music and now I’ll never get the rent, and someday he’ll be famous and they’ll bury him in the rain, but right now I wish he’d shut up that god damned screaming—for my money he’s a silly pansy jackass and when they move him out of here, I hope they move in a good solid fisherman or a hangman or a seller of biblical tracts.