Love is a Dog from Hell- Charles Bukowski

Love is a Dog from Hell
Poems, 1974-1977
Charles Bukowski

NOTE: All contents of this page are © Copyright 1977 by Charles Bukowski. All grammar, syntax and formatting are as the works appeared
in the printed version available from Black Sparrow Press. This reproduction is done only out of respect for him and to expose others to his
many works. Please visit www.blacksparrowpress.com or www.amazon.com to purchase this book and many other offerings from Buk. This is
a non-commercial site, and I am not compensated in any manner for your visits, "clicks," or purchases. The only thing I ask is that, if you enjoy
Bukowski as much as I do, please share it with your friends and support the companies who continue to publish his works by purchasing something from them.

Table of Contents | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

2
me, and that
old woman:
sorrow

this

poet

this poet he'

d been drink

ing 2 or 3 da

ys and he wa

lked out on t

he stage and

looked at th

at audience

and he just k

new he was

going to do i

t. there was

a grand pian

o on stage a

nd he walke

d over and li

fted the lid a

nd vomited i

nside the pia

no. then he c

losed the lid

and gave his

reading.

they had to r

emove the st

rings from t

he piano and

wash out the

insides and r

estring it.

I can unders

tand why th

ey never invi

ted him bac

k. but to pas

s the word o

n to other un

iversities tha

t he was a

poet who lik

ed to vomit i

nto grand pi

anos was un

fair.

they neve c

onsidered th

e quality of

his reading.

I know this

poet: he's ju

st like the re

st of us: he'l

l vomit anyw

here for mon

ey.

winter

big sloppy wounded dog

hit by a car and walking

toward the curbing

making enormous

sounds

your body curled

red blowing out of

ass and mouth.

I stare at him and

drive on

for how would it look

for me to be holding

a dying dog on a

curbing in Arcadia,

blood seeping into my

shirt and pants and

shorts and socks and

shoes? it would just

look dumb.

besides, I figure the 2

horse in the first race

and I wanted to hook

him with the 9

in the second. I

figured the daily to

pay around $140

so I had to let that

dog die alone there

just across from the

shopping center

with the ladies look-

ing for bargains

as the first bit of

snow fell upon the

Sierra Madre.

what they want

Vallejo writing about

loneliness while starving to

death;

Van Gogh's ear rejected by a

whore;

Rimboud running off to Africa

to look for gold and finding

an incurable case of syphilis;

Beethoven gone deaf;

Pound dragged through the streets

in a cage;

Chatterton taking rat poison;

Hemingway's brains dropping into

the orange juice;

Pascal cutting his wrists

in the bathtub;

Artaud locked up with the mad;

Dostoevsky stood up against a wall;

Crane jumping into a boat propeller;

Lorca shot in the road by Spanish

troops;

Berryman jumping off a bridge;

Burroughs shooting his wife;

Mailer knifing his.

-- that's what they want:

a God damned show

a lit billboard

in the middle of hell.

that's what they want,

that bunch of

dull

inarticulate

safe

dreary

admirers of

carnivals.

Iron Mike

we talk about this film:

Cagney fed this broad

grapefruit

faster than she could

eat it and

then she

love him.

"that won't always

work," I told Iron

Mike.

he grinned and said,

"yeh."

then he reached down

and touched his belt.

32 female scalps

dangled there.

"me and my big Jewish

cock," he said.

then he raised his hands

to indicate the

size.

"o, yeh, well,"

I said.

"they come around," he

said, "I fuck 'em, they

hang around, I tell 'em

'it's time to leave.'"

"you've got guts,

Mike."

"this one wouldn't leave

so I just got up and

slapped her . . . she

left."

"I don't have your nerve,

Mike. they hang around

washing dishes, rubbing

the shit-stains out of the

crapper, throwing out the

old Racing Forms. . ."

"they'll never get me,"

he said,

"I'm invincible."

look, Mike, no man is

invincible.

some day

you'll be sent mad by

eyes like a child's crayon

drawing. you won't be

able to drink a glass of

water or walk across a

room. there will be the

walls and the sound of

the streets outside, and

you'll hear machineguns

and mortar shells. that'll

be when you want it and

can't have it.

the teeth

are never finally the

teeth of love.

guru

big black beard

tells me

that I don't feel

terror

I look at him

my gut rattles

gravel

I see his eyes

look upward

he's strong

has dirty fingernails

and upon the walls:

scabbards.

he knows things:

books

the odds

the best road

home

I like him

but I think he

lies

(I'm not sure

he lies)

his wide sits

in a dark

corner

when I first me

her she was the

most beautiful

woman

I had ever

seen

now she has become

his twin

perhaps not his

fault:

perhaps the thing

does us all

like that

but after I leave

their house

I feel terror

the moon looks

diseased

my hands slip

on the

steering wheel

I get my car

out

and down the

hill

almost crash it

into a blue-green

parked car

clod me forever,

Beatrice

wavering poet, ha

haha.

dinky dog of

terror.

the professors

sitting with the professors

we talk about Allen Tate

and John Crow Ransom

the rugs are clean and

the coffeetables shine

and there is talk of

budgets and works in

progress

and there is a fireplace.

the kitchen floor is

well-waxed

and I have just eaten

dinner

after drinking until

3 a.m.

after reading

the night before

now I'm to read again

at a nearby college.

I'm in Arkansas in

January

somebody even mentions

Faulkner

I go to the bathroom

and vomit up the

dinner

when I come out

they are all in their

coats and overcoats

waiting in the

kitchen.

I'm to read in

15 minutes.

there'll be a

good crowd

they tell me.

for Al --

don't worry about rejections, pard,

I've been rejected

before.

sometimes you make a mistake, taking

the wrong poem

more often I make the mistake, writing

it.

but I like a mount in every race

even though the man

who puts up the morning line

tabs it 30 to one.

I get to thinking about death more and

more

senility

crutches

armchairs

writing purple poetry with a

dripping pen

when the young girls with mouths

like barracudas

bodies like lemon trees

bodies like clouds

bodies like flashes of lightning

stop knocking on my door.

don't worry about rejections, pard.

I have smoked 25 cigarettes tonight

and you know about the beer.

the phone has only rung once:

wrong number.

how to be a great writer

you've got to fuck a great many women

beautiful women

and write a few decent love poems.

and don't worry about age

and / or freshly-arrived talents.

just drink more beer

more and more beer

and attend the racetrack at least once a

week

and win

if possible.

learning to win is hard--

any slob can be a good loser.

and don't forget your Brahms

and your Bach and your

beer.

don't overexcercise.

sleep until noon.

avoid credit cards

or paying for anything on

time.

remember that there isn't a piece of ass

in this world worth more than $50

(in 1977).

and if you have the ability to love

love yourself first

but always be aware of the possibility of

total defeat

whether the reason for that defeat

seems right or wrong--

an early taste of death is not necessarily

a bad thing.

stay out of churches and bars and museums,

and like the spider be

patient--

time is everybody's cross,

plus

exile

defeat

treachery

all that dross.

stay with the beer.

beer is continuous blood.

a continuous lover.

get a large typewriter

and as the footsteps go up and down

outside your window

hit that thing

hit it hard

make it a heavyweight fight

make it the bull when he first charges in

and remember the old dogs

who fought so well:

Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.

If you don't think they didn't go crazy

in tiny rooms

just like you're doing now

without women

without food

without hope

then you're not ready.

drink more beer.

there's time.

and if there's not

that's all right

too.

the price

drinking 15 dollar champagne--

Cordon Rouge-- with the hookers.

one is name Georgia and she

doesn't like pantyhose:

I keep helping her pull up

her long dark stockings.

the other is Pam-- prettier

but not much soul, and

we smoke and talk and I

play with their legs and

stick my bare foot into

Georgia's open purse.

it's filled with

bottles of pills. I

take some of the pills.

"listen," I say, "one of

you has soul, the other

looks. can't I combine

the 2 of you? take the soul

and stick it into the looks?"

"you want me," says Pam, "it

will cost you a hundred."

we drink some more and Georgia

falls to the floor and can't

get up.

I tell Pam that I like her

earrings very much. her

hair is long and a natural

red.

"I was only kidding about the

hundred," she says.

"oh," I say, "what will it cost

me?"

she lights her cigarette with

my lighter and looks at me

through the flame:

her eyes tell me.

"look," I say, "I don't think I

can ever pay that price again."

she crosses her legs

inhales on her cigarette

as she exhales she smile

and says, "sure you can."

alone with everybody

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but the keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

the 2nd novel

they'd come around and

they'd ask

"you finished your

2nd novel yet?"

"no."

"whatsamatta? whatsamatta

that you can't

finish it?"

"hemorrhoids and

insomnia."

"maybe you've lost

it?"

"lost what?"

"you know."

now when they come

around I tell them,

"yeh. I finished

it. be out in Sept."

"you finished it?"

"yeh."

"well, listen, I gotta

go."

even the cat

here in the courtyard

won't come to my door

anymore.

it's nice.

Chopin Bukowski

this is my piano.

the phone rings and people ask,

what are you doing? how about

getting drunk with us?

and I say,

I'm at my piano.

what?

I'm at my piano.

I hang up.

people need me. I fill

them. if they can't see me

for a while they get desperate, the get

sick.

but if I see them too often,

I get sick. it's hard to feed

without getting fed.

my piano says things back to

me.

sometimes the things are

scrambled and not very food.

other times

I get as good and lucky as

Chopin.

sometimes I get out of practice

out of tune. that's

all right.

I can sit down and vomit on the

keys

but it's my

vomit.

it's better than sitting in a room

with 3 or 4 people and

their pianos.

this is my piano

and it is better than theirs.

and they like it and they do not

like it.

gloomy lady

she sits up there

drinking wine

while her husband

is at work.

she puts quire

some importance

upon getting her

poems published

in the little

magazines.

she

s had two or

three of her slim

volumes of poems

done in mimeo.

she has two or

three children

between the ages

of 6 and 15.

she is no longer

the beautiful woman

she was. she sends

photos of herself

sitting upon a rock

by the ocean

alone and damned.

I could have had

her once. I wonder

if she thinks I

could have

saved her?

in all her poems

her husband is

never mentioned.

but she does

talk about her

garden

so we know that's

there, anyhow,

and maybe she

fucks the rosebuds

and finches

before she writes

her poems

cockroach

the cockroach crouched

against the tile

while I was pissing and as

I turned my head

he hauled his butt

into a crack.

I got the can and sprayed

and sprayed and sprayed

and finally the roach came out

and gave me a very dirty look.

then he fell down into

the bathtub and I watched

him dying

with a subtle pleasure

because I paid the rent

and he didn't.

I picked him up with

some green blue toile

paper and flushed him

away. that's all there

was to that, except

around Hollywood and

Western we have to

keep doing it.

they say some day that

tribe is going to

inherit the earth

but we're going to

make them wait a

few months.

who the hell is Tom Jones?

I was shacked up with a

24 year old girl from

New York City for

two weeks-- about

the time of the garbage

strike out there, and

one night my 34 year

old woman arrived and

she said, " I want to see

my rival." she did

and then she said, "o,

you're a cute little thing!"

next I knew there was a

screech of wildcats--

such screaming and scratch-

ing, wounded animal moans,

blood and piss. . .

I was drunk and in my

shorts. I tried to

separate them and fell,

wrenched my knee. then

they were through the screen

door and down the walk

and out in the street.

squadcars full of cops

arrived. a police heli-

copter circled overhead.

I stood in the bathroom

and grinned in the mirror.

it's not often at the age

of 55 that such splendid

things occur.

better than Watts

riots.

the 34 year old

came back in. she had

pissed all over her-

self and her clothing

was torn and she was

followed by 2 cops who

wanted to know why.

pulling up my shorts

I tried to explain.

defeat

listening to Bruckner on the radio

wondering why I'm not half mad

over the latest breakup with my

latest girlfriend

wondering why I'm not driving the streets

drunk

wondering why I'm not in the bedroom

in the dark

in the grievous dark

pondering

ripped by half-thoughts.

I suppose

that at last

like the average man:
I've known too many women

and instead of thinking,

I wonder who's fucking her now?

I think

she's giving some other poor son of a bitch

much trouble right now.

listening to Bruckner on the radio

seems so peaceful.

too many women have gone through.

I am at last alone

without being alone.

I pick up a Grumbacher paint brush

and clean my fingernails with the hard sharp end.

I notice a wall socket.

look, I've won.

traffic signals

the old folks play a game

in the park overlooking the sea

shoving markers across cement

with wooden sticks.

four play, two on each side

and 18 or 20 other sit in

the sun and watch

I notice this as aI move

toward the public facility

as my car is being repaired.

an old cannon sits in the park

rusted and useless.

six or seven sailboards ride

the sea below.

I finish my duty

come out

and they are still playing.

one of the women is heavily rouged

wearing false eyelashes and smoking

a cigarette.

the men are very thin

very pale

wear wristwatches that hurt

their wrists.

the other woman is very fat

and giggles

each time a score is made

some of them are my age.

they disgust me

the way they wait for death

with as much passion

as a traffic signal.

these are the people who believe advertisements

these are the people who buy dentures on credit

these are the people who celebrate holidays

these are the people who have grandchildren

these are the people who vote

these are the people who have funerals

these are the dead

the smog

the stink in the air

the lepers.

these are almost everybody

finally.

seagulls are better

seaweed is better

dirty sand is better

if I could turn that old cannon

on them

and make it work

I would.

they disgust me.

462-0614

I get many phonecalls now.

They are all alike.

"are you Charles Bukowski,

the writer?"

"yes," I tell them.

and they tell me

that the understand my

writing,

and some of them are writers

or want to be writers

and they have dull and

horrible jobs

and they can't face the room

the apartment

the walls

that night--

they want somebody to talk

to,

and they can't believe

that I can't help them

that I don't know the words.

they can't believe

that often now

I double up in my room

grab my gut

and say

"Jesus Jesus Jesus, not

again!"

they can't believe

that the loveless people

the streets

the loneliness

the walls

are mine too.

and when I hang up the phone

they think I have held back my

secret.

I don't write out of

knowledge.

when the phone rings

I too would like to hear words

that might ease

some of this.

that's why my number's

listed.

photographs

they photograph you on your porch

and on your couch

and standing the courtyard

or leaning against your car

these photographers

women with big asses

which look better to you

than do their eyes or their souls

--this playing at author

it's real Hemingway

James Joyce

stageshit

but look--

there are the books

you've written them

you haven't been to Paris

but you've written all those books

there behind you

(and others not there,

lost or stolen)

all you've got to do

is look like Bukowski

for the cameras

but

you keep watching

those astonishingly big asses

and thinking--

somebody else is getting

it

"look into my eyes,"

they say and click their cameras

and flash their cameras

and fondle their cameras

Hemingway used to box or go

fishing or to the bullfights

but after they leave

you jerk-off into the sheets

and take a hot bath

the never send the photos

like they promise to send the photos

and astonishingly big asses are

gone forever

and you've been a fine literary fellow--

now alive

dead soon enough

looking into and at their eyes and souls

and more.

Social

the blue pencil of the wave

shots of yellow road

a steering wheel

an insane woman sitting

next to you

complaining as the ocean

creams-off

and people in yellow and

white

campers

block your way

a frantic

time

as you listen

guilty of this and

guilty of that

you admit

this and that

but it's not

enough

she wants splendid

conquest

and you're weary of

splendid

conquest

getting there

she climbs out

walks toward the

house

you piss across the

fender of your car

drunk on beer

little spots of you

dripping down into

the dust

the dry

dust

zipping up you

march in to

meet her

friends.

one to the breastplate

I have a saying, " the tough ones always come

back."

but Vera was kinder than most,

and so I was surprised when

she arrived that night

and said, "let me in."

"no, no, I'm working on a sonnet."

"I'll just stay a minute, then I'll

leave."

"Vera, if I let you in you'll be here

for 3 or 4 days."

it was night and I hadn't turned the

porch light on so I couldn't see it

coming

but

she threw a right that

exploded in the center of my

chest.

"baby, that was a beautiful punch.

now move off."

then I closed the door.

she was back again in 5 minutes:

"Hank, I can't find my car, I

swear I can't find my car. help

me find my car!"

I saw my friend Bobby-the-Riff

walking by, "hey, Bobby, help

this one find her car, we'll

even it up later."

they went off together.

later Bobby said they found her

car parked on somebody's front

lawn, lights on and motor

running.

I haven't heard from Vera

since

unless she's the one

who keeps phoning at

2 and 3 and 4 a.m. in the

morning

and doesn't answer when I

say "hello."

but Bobby says he

can handle her

so I've decided to turn her over

to Bobby.

she lives on a side street somewhere

in Glendale

and I help him unfold the

roadmap as we sip our

diet Schlitz.

the worst and the best

in the hospitals and jails

it's the worst

in the madhouses

it's the worst

in penthouses

it's the worst

in skit row flophouses

it's the worst

at poetry readings

at rock concerts

at benefits for the disabled

it's the worst

at funerals

at weddings

it's the worst

at parades

at skating rinks

at sexual orgies

it's the worst

at midnight

at 3 a.m.

at 5:45 p.m.

it's the worst

falling through the sky

firing squads

that's the best

thinking of India

looking at popcorn stands

watching the bull get the matador

that's the best

boxed lightbulbs

an old dog scratching

peanuts in a celluloid bag

that's the best

spraying roaches

a clean pair of stockings

natural guts defeating natural talent

that's the best

in front of firing squads

throwing crusts to seagulls

slicing tomatoes

that's the best

rugs with cigarette burns

cracks in sidewalks

waitresses still sane

that's the best

my hands dead

my heart dead

silence

adagio of rocks

the world ablaze

that's the best

for me.

coupons

cigarettes wetted with beer from

the night before

you light on

gag

open the door for air

and on you doorstep

is a dead sparrow

his head and breast

chewed away.

hanging from the doorknob

is an ad from the All American

Burger

consisting of several coupons

which

say

that with the purchase

of a burger

from Feb. 12 thru Feb. 15

you can get a free

regular size bag of french

fries and one

10 oz. cup of coca cola.

I take the ad

wrap the sparrow

carry him to the trash bin

and dump him

in.

look:

forsaking fries and coke

to help keep

my city

clean.

luck

what's bad about all

this

is watching people

drinking coffee and

waiting. I would

douse them all

with luck. they need

it. they need it

worse than I do.

I sit in cages

and watch them

waiting. I suppose

there's not much

else to do. the

flies walk up and

down the windows

and we drink our

coffee and pretend

not to look at

each other. I

wait with them.

between the move-

ment of the flies

people walk by.

dog

a single dog

walking alone on a hot sidewalk of

summer

appears to have the power

of ten thousand gods.

why is this?

trench warfare

sick with the flu

drinking beer

my radio on loud

enough to overcome

the sounds of the

people who

have just moved

into the court

across the way.

asleep or awake

they play their

set at top volume

leaving their

doors and windows

open.

the are each

18, married, wear

red shoes,

are blonde,

slim.

they play

everything: jazz,

classical, rock,

country, modern

as long is it is

loud.

this is the problem

of being poor:

we must share each

other's sounds.

last week it was

my turn:

there were two women

in here

fighting each other

and then they

ran up the walk

screaming.

the police came.

now it's their

turn.

now I am walking

up and down in

my dirty shorts,

two rubber earplugs

stuck deep into

my ears.

I even consider

murder.

such rude little

rabbits!

walking little pieces

of snot!

but in our land

and in our way

there has never

been a chance;

it's only when

things are not

going too badly

for a while

that we forget.

someday they'll

each be dead

someday they'll

each have a

separate coffin

and it will be quiet.

but right now

it's Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan Bob

Dylan all the

way.

the night I fucked my alarm clock

once

starving in Philadelphia

I had a small room

it was evening going into night

and I stood at my window on the 3rd floor

in the dark and looked down into a

kitchen across the way on the 2nd floor

and I saw a beautiful blonde girl

embrace a young man there and kiss him

with what seemed hunger

and I stood and watched until the broke

away.

then I turned and switched on the room light.

I saw my dresser and my dresser drawers

and my alarm clock on the dresser.

I took my alarm clock

to bed with me and

fucked it until the hands dropped off.

then I went out and walked the streets

until my feet blistered.

when I got back I walked to the window

and looked down and across the way

and the light in their kitchen was

out.

when I think of myself dead

I think of automobiles parked in a

parking lot

when I think of myself dead

I think of frying pans

when I think of myself dead

I think of somebody making love to you

when I'm not around

when I think of myself dead

I have trouble breathing

when I think of myself dead

I think of all the people waiting to die

when I think of myself dead

I think I wouldn't be able to drink water anymore

when I think of myself dead

the air goes all white

the roaches in my kitchen

tremble

and somebody will have to throw

my clean and dirty underwear

away.

Christmas eve, alone

Christmas eve, alone,

in a motel room

down the coast

near the Pacific--

hear it?

they've tried to do this place up

SPanish, there's

tapestry and lamps, and

the toilet's clean, there are

tiny bars of pink

soap.

they won't find us

here:

the barracudas or the ladies or

the idol

worshippers.

back in town

they're drunk and panicked

running red lights

breaking their heads open

in honor of Christ's

birthday. that's nice.

soon I'll finish this 5th of

Puerto Rican rum.

in the morning I'll vomit and

shower, drive back

in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,

be back in my room by

2,

stretched on the bed,

waiting for the phone to ring,

not answering,

my holiday is an

evasion, my reasoning

is not.

there once was a woman who put her head into an oven

terror finally becomes almost

bearable

but never quire

terror creeps like a cat

crawls like a cat

across my mind

I can hear the laughter of the masses

they are strong

they will survive

like the roach

never take your eyes off the roach

you'll never see it again.

the masses are everywhere

they know how to do things:

they have sane and deadly angers

for sane and deadly

things.

I wish I were driving a blue 1952 Buick

or a dark blue 1942 Buick

or a blue 1932 Buick

over a cliff of hell and into the

sea.

beds, toilets, you and

me--

think of the beds

used again and again

to fuck in

to die in.

in this land

some of us fuck more than

we die

but most of us die

better than we

fuck,

and we die

piece by piece too--

in parks

eating ice cream, or

in igloos

of dementia,

or on straw mats

or upon disembarked

loves

or

or.

:beds beds beds

:toilets toilets toilets

the human sewage system

is the world's greatest

invention.

and you invented me

and I invented you

and that's why we don't

get along

on this bed

any longer.

you were the world's

greatest invention

until you

flushed me

away.

now it's your turn

to wait for the touch

of the handle.

somebody will do it

to you,

bitch,

and if they don't

you will--

mixed with your own

green or yellow or white

or blue

or lavender

goodbye.

this then--

it's the same as before

or the other time

or the time before that.

only each time

you think

well now I've learned:

I'll let her do that

and I'll do this,

I no longer want it all,

just some comfort

and some sex

and only a minor

love.

now I'm waiting again

and the years run thin.

I have my radio

and the kitchen walls

are yellow.

I keep dumping bottles

and listening

for footsteps.

I hope that death contains

less than this.

imagination and reality

there are many single women in the world

with one or two or three children

and one wonders where the husbands

have gone or where the lovers have

gone

leaving behind

all those hands and eyes and feet

and voices.

as I pass through their homes

I like opening cupboards and

looking in

or under the sink

or in a closet--

I expect to find the husband

or lover and he'll tell me:

"hey, buddy, didn't you notice her

stretch-marks, she's got stretch-marks

and floppy tits and she eats

onions all the time and farts... but

I'm a handy man. I can fix things,

I know how to use a turret-lathe and

I make my own oil changes. I can shoot

pool, bowl, and I can finish 5th or

6th in any cross-country marathon

anywhere. I've got a set of golf

clubs, can shoot in the 80's. I know

where the clit is and what to do about

it. I've got a cowboy hat with the brim

turned straight up at the sides.

I'm good with the lasso and the dukes

and I know all the latest dance steps."

and I'll say, "look, I was just leaving."

and I will leave before he can challenge me

to arm-wrestling

or tell a dirty joke

or show me the dancing tattoo on his

right bicep.

but really

all I find in the cupboards are

coffee cups and large cracked brown plates

and under the sink a stack of hardened

rags, and in the closet-- more coathangers

than clothes, and it's not until she shows

me the photo album and the photos of him--

nice enough like a shoehorn, or a cart in

the supermarket whose wheels aren't stuck--

that the self-doubt leaves, and the

pages turn and there's one child on a

swing wearing a red outfit and there's

the other one

chasing a seagull in Santa Monica.

and life becomes sad and not dangerous

and therefore good enough:

to have her bring you a cup of coffee in

one of those coffee cups without him

jumping out.

stolen

I keep thinking it will be outside

now

waiting for me

blue

front bumper twisted

Maltese cross hanging

from the mirror.

rubber floormat

twisted under the pedals.

20 m.p.g.

good old TRV 491

the faithful love of a man,

the way I put her into second

while taking a corner

the way she could dig from a signal

with any other around.

the way we conquered large and

small spaces

rain

sun

smog

hostility

the crush of things.

I came out of last Thursday night's

fights at Olympic

and my 1967 Volks was gone

with another lover

to another place.

the fights had been good.

I called a cab at a Standard station

and sat eating a jelly doughnut

with coffee in a cage and

waited,

and I knew that if I found

the man who stole her

I would kill him.

the cab came. I waved to the

driver, paid for the coffee and

doughnut, got out into the night,

got in, and told him, "Hollywood

and Western," and that particular

night was just about over.

the meek have inherited

if I suffer at this

typewriter

think how I'd feel

among the lettuce-

pickers of Salinas?

I think of the grown men

I've known in

factories

with no way to

get out--

choking while living

choking while laughing

at Bob Hope or Lucille

Ball while

2 or 3 children beat

tennis balls against

the walls.

some suicides are never

recorded.

the insane always loved
me

and the subnormal.

all through grammar school

junior high

high school

junior college

the unwanted would attach

themselves to

me.

guys with one arm

guys with twitches

guys with speech defects

guys with white film

over one eye,

cowards

misanthropes

killers

peep-freaks

and thieves.

and all through the

factories and on the

bum

I always drew the

unwanted. they found me

right off and attached

themselves. they

still do.

in this neighborhood now

there's one who's

found me.

he pushes around a

shopping cart

filled with trash:

broken canes, shoelaces,

empty potato chip bags,

milk cartons, newspapers, penholders . . .

"hey, buddy, how ya doin'?"

I stop and we talk a

while.

then I say goodbye

but he still follows

me

past the beer

parlours and the

love parlours . . .

"keep me informed,

buddy, keep me informed,

I want to know what's

going on."

he's my new one.

I've never seen him

talk to anybody

else.

the cart rattles

along a little bit

behind me

then something

falls out.

he stops to pick

it up.

as he does I

walk through the

front door of the

green hotel on the

corner

pass down through

the hall

come out the back

door and

there's a cat

shitting there in

absolute delight,

he grins at

me.

Big Max

in junior high school

Big Max was a problem.

we'd be sitting during lunch hour

eating our peanut butter sandwiches

and potato chips.

he was hairy of nostril

and of eyebrow, his lips

glistened with spittle.

he already wore size ten and a half

shoes. his shirts stretched across a

massive chest. his wrists looked like

two by fours. and he walked up

through the shadows behind the gym

where we sat, my friend Eli and I.

"you guys," he stood there, "you guys

sit with your shoulders slumped!

you walk around with your shoulders

slumped! how are you ever going to

make it?"

we didn't answer.

then Max would look at me.

"stand up!"

I'd stand up and he'd walk around

behind me and say, "square your

shoulders like this!"

and he'd snap my shoulders back.

"there! doesn't that feel better!"

"yeah, Max."

then he'd walk off and I'd resume a

normal posture.

Big Max was ready for the

world. it made us sick

to look at him.

trapped

in the winter walking on my

ceiling my eyes the size of street-

lamps. I have 4 feet like a mouse but

wash my own underwear-- bearded and

hungover and a hard-on and no lawyer. I

have a face like a washrag. I sing

love songs and carry steel.

I would rather die than cry. I can;t

stand hounds can't live without them.

I hang my head against the white

refrigerator and want to scream like

the last weeping of life forever but

I am bigger than the mountains.

it's the way you play the game

call it love

stand it up in the failing

light

put it in address

pray sing beg cry laugh

turn off the lights

turn on the radio

add trimmings:

butter, raw eggs, yesterday's

newspaper;

one new shoelace, then add

paprika, sugar, salt, pepper,

phone your drunken aunt in

Calexico;

call it love, you

skewer it food, add

cabbage and applesauce,

then heat it from the

left side,

then heat it from the right

side,

put it in a box,

give it away

leave it on a doorstep

vomiting as you go

into the

hydrangea.

on the continent

I'm soft. I

dream too.

I let myself dream. I dream of

being famous. I dream of

walking the streets of London and

Paris. I dream of

sitting in cafes

drinking fine wines and

taking a taxi back to a good

hotel.

I dream of

meeting beautiful ladies in the hall

and turning them away because

I have a sonnet in mind that

I want to write

before sunrise. at sunrise

I will be asleep and there will be a

strange cat curled up on the

windowsill.

I think we all feel like this

now and then.

I'd even like to visit

Andernach, Germany, the place where

I began. then I'd like to

fly on to Moscow to check out

their mass transit system so

I'd have something faintly lewd to

whisper into the ear of the mayor of

Los Angeles upon my return to this

fucking place.

it could happen.

I'm ready.

I've watched snails climb over

ten foot walls and vanish.

you mustn't confuse this with

ambition.

I would be able to laugh at my

good turn of the cards--

and I wouldn't forget you.

I'll send postcards and

snapshots, and the

finished sonnet.

12:18 a.m.

beheaded in the middle of the

night

scratching my sides

I am covered with bites

kick my white legs out of the sheets

as the sirens scream

there is a gun blast.

I go to the kitchen

for a glass of water

destroy the reverie of a roach

destroy the roach.

a gale comes from the North

as the man in the apartment across

from me inserts his penis into the rump of his

4 year old

daughter.

I hear the screams

light a cigar

stick it into the lips of my

beheaded head.

it is half a cigar

stale

a Medalist Naturales, No. 7.

I walk back to the bedroom

with a spray can.

I press the button.

it hisses. I

gag,

think of ancient wars

loves dead.

so much happens in the dark

yet tomorrow

the sun will move up and on,

you'll get a ticket if you park on the

south side of the street on

Thursday

or the north side on

Friday.

the efficiency of the sun and the

law

bulwarks sanity.

something bites me.

I madden

spray half my

bedsheets.

I turn

see the dark mirror--

the cigar

the loose belly

me

old.

I laugh.

it's good they don't

know.

I take my head

put it back on my

neck

get between the sheets and

can't sleep.

yellow cab

The Mexican dancer shook her fans at

me and her ass at me, I

didn't ask her to and

my woman got mad and ran out of the cafe and

it began raining and you could hear it on the

rood and I didn't have a job and I had 13 days left

on the rent.

sometimes when a woman runs out on you like

that you wonder if it's not

economics, you can't blame them--

if I had to get fucked I'd rather get fucked

by somebody with money.

we're all scared but when you're ugly and you

don't have much left you get

strong, and I called the waiter over and I said,

I think I am going to turn this table over, I'm

bored, I'm insane, I need

action, call in your goon, I'll piss on his

collarbone.

I got

thrown out swiftly. it was

raining. I picked myself up in the rain and

walked down the empty street

cotton candy sweet

dumb shit for sale, all the little stores locked

with 67-cent Woolworth locks.

I reached the end of the street in time

to see her get into the yellow cab with

another guy.

I fell down by a garbage can, stood up

and pissed against it, feeling sad and not

sad, knowing there was only so much the could do to

you, piss sliding down the corrugated

tin, the philosophers must have had something to

say about this. women. their luck against your

destiny. winner take Barcelona. next

bar.

how come you're not unlisted?

the men phone and ask me that.

are you really Charles Bukowski

the writer? they ask.

I'm a sometimes writer, I say,

most often I don't do anything.

listen, they ask, I like your

stuff-- do you mind if I come

over and bring a couple of 6

packs?

you can bring them, I say

if you don't come in. . .

when the women phone, I say,

o yes, I write, I'm a writer

only I'm not writing right now.

I feel foolish phoning you,

they say, and I was surprised

to find you listed in the phone book.

I have reasons, I say,

by the way why don't you come over

for a beer?

you wouldn't mind?

and they arrive

handsome women

good of mind and body and eye.

often there isn't sex

but I'm used to that

yet it's good

very good just to look at them--

and some rare times

I have unexpected good luck

otherwise.

for a man of 55 who didn't get laid

until he was 23

and not very often until he was 50

I think that I should stay listed

via Pacific Telephone

until I get as much as

the average man has had.

of course, I'll have to keep

writing immortal poems

but the inspiration is there.

weather report

I suppose it's raining in some Spanish town

now

while I'm feeling bad

like this;

I'd like to think so

now.

let's go to a Mexican hamlet--

that sounds nice:

a Mexican hamlet

while I'm feeling bad

like this

the walls yellow with age--

that rain

out there,

a pig moving in his pen at night

disturbed by the rain,

little eyes like cigarette-ends,

and his damned tail:

see it?

I can't imagine the people.

it's hard for me to imagine the people.

maybe they are feeling bad like this,

almost as bad as this.

I wonder what they do when they feel

bad?

they probably don't mention it.

they say,

"look, it's raining."

that's the best way.

clean old man

here I'll be

55 in a

week.

what will I

write about

when it no

longer stands

up in the morning?

my critics

will love it

when my playground

narrows down to

tortoises

and shell stars.

they might even

say

nice things about

me

as if I had

finally

come to my

senses.

something

I'm out of matches.

the springs in my couch

are broken.

they stole my footlocker.

they stole my oil painting of

two pink eyes.

my car broke down.

eels climb my bathroom walls.

my love is broken.

but the stock market went up

today.

a plate glass window

dogs and angels are not

very different.

I often go to this place

to eat

about 2:30 in the afternoon

because all the people who eat

there are particularly addled

simply glad to be alive and

eating baked beans

near a plate glass window

which holds the heat

and doesn't let the cars and

sidewalks inside.

we are allowed as much free

coffee as we can drink

and we sit and quietly drink

the black strong coffee.

it is food to be sitting someplace

in a world at 2:30 in the afternoon

without having the flesh ripped from

your bones. even

being addled, we know this.

nobody bothers us

we bother nobody.

angels and dogs are not

very different

at 2:30 in the afternoon.

I have my favorite table

and after I have finished

I stack the plates, saucers,

the cup, the silverware

neatly--

my offering to the luck--

and that sun

working good

all up and

down

inside the

darkness

here.

junkies

"she shoots up in the neck," she told

me. I told her to stick it into my

ass and she tried and said, "oh, oh,"

and I said, "what the hell's the matter?"

she said, "nothing, this is New York

style," and she jammed it in again ands said,

"oh, shit." I took it and put it into

my arm, I got part of it.

"I don't know why people

fuck with the stuff, there's not that

much to it. I think they're all losers

and they want to lose real bad. there's

no other way, it's like they can't

get where they're going or want to go

and there's no other way.

this has got to be it.

she shoots up the neck."

"I know," I said. "I phoned her, she

could hardly talk, said it was

laryngitis. have some of this wine."

it was white wine and 4:30 a.m. and her

daughter was sleeping in the bedroom. she

had cable tv with no sound and

a large screen young John Wayne watched

us, and we neither kissed nor made

love and I left at 6:15 a.m.

after the beer and wine were gone

so her daughter wouldn't awaken for

school and find me sitting in

bed with her mother

with John Wayne and the night gone

and not much chance for anybody--

99 to one

the blazing shark

wants my balls

as I walk through the meat section

looking for salami and cheese

purple housewives

fingering 75 cent avocados

know my shopping cart is an

oversized cock

I am a man with a switchball watch

standing in a honky-tonk phonebooth

sucking strawberry red titty

upsidedown in a Philadelphia crowd.

suddenly all about me are screams of

RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE

and I am stiffing it to something beneath me

dyed red hair, bad breath, blue teeth

I used to like Monet

I used to like Money very much

it was funny, I thought, the way he did it

with colors

women are so expensive

dog leashes are expensive

I am going to start selling air in dark orange bags

marked: moon-blooms

I used to like bottles full of blood

young girls in camel-hair coats

Prince Valiant

Popeye's magic touch

the struggle is in the struggle

like a corkscrew

a good man doesn't get cork in the wine

the thought has occurred to millions of men

while shaving

the removal of life might be preferred to

the removal of hair

spit out cotton and clan your rearview

mirror, run like you mean it, drunk jock,

the whores will win, the fools will win,

but break like a horse out of the gate.

the crunch

too much

too little

too fat

too thin

or nobody.

laughter or

tears

haters

lovers

strangers with faces like

the backs of

thumb tacks

armies running through

streets of blood

waving winebottles

bayoneting and fucking

virgins.

or an old guy in a cheap room

with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock.

people so tired

mutilated

either by love or nor love.

people just are not good to each other

one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich

the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us

that we can all be

big-ass winners.

it hasn't told us

about the gutters

or the suicides.

or the terror of one person

aching in one place

alone

untouched

unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.

I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about

it.

the beads will swing

the clouds will cloud

and the killer will behead the child

like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much

too little

too fat

too thin

or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not food to each other.

perhaps if they were

our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls

stems

flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way we have not yet

thought of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries

it demands

it says that there is a chance.

it will not say

"no."

a horse with greenblue eyes

what you see is what you see:

madhouses are rarely

on display.

that we still walk about and

scratch ourselves and light

cigarettes

is more the miracle

than bathing beauties

than roses and the moth.

to sit in a small room

and drink a can of beer

and roll a cigarette

while listening to Brahms

on a small red radio

is to have come back

from a dozen wars

alive

listening to the sound

of the refrigerator

as bathing beauties rot

and oranges and apples

roll away.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is the end of Part Two of Charles Bukowski's Love is a Dog from Hell.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

All contents of this page are © Copyright 1977 by Charles Bukowski. This reproduction is done only out of respect for him and to expose others to his many works. Please visit www.blacksparrowpress.com or www.amazon.com to purchase this book and many other offerings from Buk. I am not compensated in any manner for your visits, "clicks," or purchases.