Читать книгу Come On In! - Charles Bukowski - Страница 24

I put the book down and ask:

why are they always writing about

the bulls, the bullfighters?

those who have never seen

them?

and as I break the web of the

spider reaching for my wine,

the hum of bombers

breaking the solace, I decide

I must write an impatient letter to my

priest about some 3rd St.

whore

who keeps calling me up at 3 in

the morning.

ass full of

splinters,

thinking of pocketbook poets

and the priest,

I go over to the typewriter

next to the window

to see to my letter

and look look

the sky’s black as ink

and my wife says Brock, for

Christ’s sake,

the typewriter all night,

how can I sleep? and I crawl quickly

into bed and

kiss her hair and say

sorry sorry sorry

sometimes I get excited

I don’t know why …

a friend of mine has

written a book about

Manolete …

who’s that? nobody, kid,

somebody dead

like Chopin or our old mailman

or a dog,

go to sleep, go to sleep,

and I kiss her and rub her

head,

a good woman,

and soon she sleeps as I wait

for morning.