Читать книгу Come On In! - Charles Bukowski - Страница 26

holy Christ, I was on fire then and

I’d tell that whore I lived with on Beacon Street

starving and drinking

I’d tell her that I had something great and mysterious

going for me,

in fact, when I got really drunk I’d pace the floor in my

dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt and

say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking

genius and nobody knows it but

me!”

I thought this was rather humorous but she’d say, “honey, you’re

full of shit, pour us another drink!”

she was crazy too and now and then an empty bottle would come

flying toward my head.

(she

missed most of the time)

but

when she bounced one off my skull I’d ignore it, and pour another

drink because

after all, when you’re immortal, nothing

matters.

and besides, she had one of the finest pair of legs I’d ever

seen

in those high-heeled shoes and with her slender

ankles and her great knees glimmering in the

smoky drunken light.

she helped me through some of the worst times and if she was

here now we’d both laugh our goddamned asses

off

knowing it was all so true and real, and yet that somehow it

wasn’t real at

all.