Читать книгу Essential Bukowski: Poetry - Чарльз Буковски, Abel Debritto - Страница 21

I am watching a girl dressed in a

light green sweater, blue shorts, long black stockings;

there is a necklace of some sort

but her breasts are small, poor thing,

and she watches her nails

as her dirty white dog sniffs the grass

in erratic circles;

a pigeon is there too, circling,

half dead with a tick of a brain

and I am upstairs in my underwear,

3 day beard, pouring a beer and waiting

for something literary or symphonic to happen;

but they keep circling, circling, and a thin old man

in his last winter rolls by pushed by a girl

in a Catholic school dress;

somewhere there are the Alps, and ships

are now crossing the sea;

there are piles and piles of H- and A-bombs,

enough to blow up fifty worlds and Mars thrown in,

but they keep circling,

the girl shifts buttocks,

and the Hollywood Hills stand there, stand there

full of drunks and insane people and

much kissing in automobiles,

but it’s no good: che sarà, sarà: her dirty white dog simply will not shit, and with a last look at her nails she, with much whirling of buttocks walks to her downstairs court trailed by her constipated dog (simply not worried), leaving me looking at a most unsymphonic pigeon. well, from the looks of things, relax: the bombs will never go off.