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
3
Scarlet
Scarlet
I'm glad when they arrive
and I'm glad when the leave
I'm glad when I hear their heels
approaching my door
and I'm glad when those heels
walk away
I'm glad to fuck
I'm glad to care
and I'm glad when it's over
and
since it's always either
starting or finishing
I'm glad
most of the time
and the cats walk up and down
and the earth spins around the sun
and the phone rings:
"this is Scarlet."
"who?"
"Scarlet."
"o.k., get it on over."
and I hang up thinking
maybe this is it
go in
take a quick shit
shave
bathe
dress
dump the sacks
and cartons of empty
bottles
sit down to the sound of
heels approaching
more an army approaching than
victory
it's Scarlet
and in my kitchen the faucet
keeps dripping
needs a washer.
I'll take care of it
later.
red up and down
red hair
real
she whirled it
and she asked
"is my ass still on?"
such comedy.
there is always on woman
to save you from another
and as that woman saves you
she makes ready to
destroy.
"sometimes I hate you,"
she said.
she walked out and sat on
my porch and read my copy
of Catullus, she stayed out
there for an hour.
people walked up and down
past my place
wondering where such an ugly
old man could get
such beauty.
I didn't know either.
when she walked in I grabbed
her and pulled her to my lap.
I lifted my glass and told
her, "drink this."
"oh, she said, "you've mixed
wine with Jim Beam, you're gonna
get nasty."
"you henna your hair, don't
you?"
"you don look, she said and
stood up and pulled down
her slacks and panties and
the hair down there was the
same as the hair
up there.
Catullus himself couldn't have wished
for more historic or
wondrous grace;
then he went
goofy
for tender boys
not mad enough
to become
women.
like a flower in the rain
I cut the middle fingernail of the middle
finger
right hand
real short
and I began rubbing along her cunt
as she sat upright in bed
spreading lotion over her arms
face
and breasts
after bathing.
the she lit a cigarette:
"don't let this put you off,"
and smoked and continued to rub the
lotion on.
I continued to rub the cunt.
"you want an apple?" I asked.
"sure," she said, "you got one?"
but I got to her--
she began to twist
then she rolled on her side,
she was getting wet and open
like a flower in the rain.
then she rolled on her stomach
and her most beautiful ass
looked up at me
and I reached under and got the
cunt again.
she reached around and got my
cock, she rolled and twisted,
I mounted
my face falling into the mass
of red hair that overflowed
from her head
and my fattened cock entered
into the miracle.
later we joked about the lotion
and the cigarette and the apple.
then I went out and got some chicken
and shrimp and french fries and buns
and mashed potatoes and gravy and
cole slaw, and we ate. she told me
how good she felt and I told her
how good I felt and we ate
the chicken and the shrimp and the
french fries and the buns and the
mashed potatoes and the gravy and
the cole slaw too.
light brown
light brown stare
that dumb blank marvelous
light brown stare
I'll take care of
it.
you needn't carry me
anymore
with your Cleopatra
movie star
tricks
do you realize
that if I were an adding machine
I might break down
tabulating
how many times you've used
that light brown stare?
not that you're not the best
with your light brown stare.
someday some crazy son of a bitch
is going to murder you
and you'll cry out my name
you'll finally know
what you should have known
so very long
ago.
huge ear rings
I go to pick her up.
she's on some errand.
she always has errands
many things to do.
I have nothing to do.
she comes out of her apartment
I see her move toward my car
she is barefooted
dressed casually
except for huge ear rings.
I light a cigarette
and when I look up
she is stretched out on the street
a quite busy street
all 112 pounds of her
as beautiful as anything you might
imagine.
I switch on the radio\and wait for her to get up.
she does.
I flip the car door open.
she gets in. I drive away from the
curb. she likes the song on the radio
she turns the radio up.
she seems to like all the songs
she seems to know all the songs
each time I see her she looks better
and better
200 years ago the would have burned her
at the stake
now she puts on her
mascara as we
drive along.
she came of the bathroom with
her flaming red hair and said--
the cops want me to come down and identify
some guy who tried to rape me.
I've lost the key to my car again; I've got
the key to open the door but not the one
so start it.
those people are trying to take my child
away from me but I won't let them.
Rochelle almost o.d.'d then she went at
Harry with something, and he punched her.
she's had those cracked ribs, you know,
and one of the punctured her lung. she's
down at the county under a machine.
where's my comb?
your comb has all that guck in it.
I told her,
I haven't seen your
comb.
a killer
consistency is terrific:
shark-mouth
grubby interior with an
almost perfect body,
long blazing hair--
it confuses me
and others
she runs from man to man
offering endearments
she speaks of love
then breaks each man
to her will
shark-mouthed
grubby interior
we see it too late:
after the cock gets swallowed
the heart follows
her long blazing hair
her almost perfect body
walks down the street
as the same sun
falls upon the flowers.
longshot
she's not for you, man,
she's not your type,
she's erased
she's been used
she's got all the wrong
habits,
he told me
in between races.
I'm going to bet the 4
horse, I told him.
well, it's only that I'd
like to turn her around
in mid-stream,
save her, you might say.
you can't save her, he said,
you're 55, you need kindness.
I'm going to bet the 6 horse.
you're not the one to save
her.
who can save her? I asked.
I don't think the 6 has a
chance, I like the 4.
she needs somebody to beat her
from wall to wall, he said,
kick her ass, she'd love
it. she'd stay home and
wash the dishes.
the 6 horse will be in
the running.
I'm no good at beating women,
I said.
forget her then, he said.
it's hard to, I said.
he got up and bet the 6
and I got up and bet the 4.
the 5 horse won
by 3 lengths
at 15 to one.
she's got red hair
like lightening from heaven,
I said.
forget her, he said.
we tore up our tickets
and stared at the lake
in the center of the track.
it was going to be
a long afternoon
for both of us.
the promise
she bent over the side of the bed
and opened the portfolio
along the side of the wall.
we were drinking.
she said, " you promised me these
paintings once, don't you
remember?"
"what? no, no, I don't remember."
"well, you did," she said, "and you
ought to keep your promises."
"leave those fucking paintings alone,"
I said.
then I walked into the kitchen for
a beer. I paused to vomit
and when I came out
I saw her through my window
going down the court walk
toward her place in back.
she was trying to hurry
and balanced on top of her head
were 40 paintings;
oils
black and whites
acrylics
water colors.
she stumbled once and almost
fell on her ass.
then she ran up her steps
and was gone through her door
to her place upstairs
running with all those paintings
on top of her head.
it was one of the funniest damned
things I ever did see.
well, I guess I'll just have to
paint 40 more.
waving and waving goodbye
I paid this one's fare all the way from Houston
to San Francisco
then flew up to meet her at her brother's house
and I got drunk
and talked all night about a redhead, and
she finally said, "you sleep up there,"
and I climbed the ladder
up into a bunk and she slept
down there.
the next day they drove me back to the airport
and I flew back, thinking, well,
there's still the redhead and when I got back in
I phoned the redhead and said, "I'm back, baby,
I flew up to see this woman and I talked about
you all night, so here I am . . ."
"well, why don't you fly back up and finish
the job?" she said and hung up.
then I got drunk and the phone rang
and they said they were
two ladies from Germany and they'd like
to see me.
so they came over and one was 20 and the
other was 22. I told them that my heart
had been smashed for the last time and
that I was giving up women. they laughed
at me and we drank and smoked and went to
bed together.
I got this thing in front of me and
first I grabbed one and then I grabbed the
other.
I finally settled on the 22 year old and
ate her up.
they stayed 2 days and 2 nights
but I never to the 20 year old,
she was on tampax.
I finally drove them to Sherman Oaks
and the stood at the foot of a long
driveway
waving and waving goodbye as I backed
my Volks out.
when I got back there was a letter from a
lady in Eureka. she said that she wanted me
to fuck her until she couldn't
walk anymore.
I stretched out and whacked-off
thinking about a little girl I had seen
on a red bicycle about a week ago.
then I took a bath and put on my green
terrycloth robe just in time to get the fights
on tv from the Olympic.
there was a black and Chicano in there.
that always made a good fight.
and it was a good idea too:
put them in there and let them kill each
other.
I watched the whole fight
thinking about the redhead all the time.
I think the Chicano won
but I'm not sure.
liberty
she was sitting in the window
of room 1010 at the Chelsea
in New York,
Janis Joplin's old room.
it was 104 degrees
and she was on speed
and had one leg over
the sill,
and she leaned out and said,
"God, this great!"
and then she slipped
and almost went out,
just catching herself.
it was very close.
she pulled herself in
walked over and stretched
on the bed.
I've lost a lot of women
in a lot of different ways
but that would have been
the first time
that way.
then she rolled off the bed
landed on her back
and when I walked over
she was asleep.
all day she had been wanting
to see the Statue of Liberty.
now she wouldn't worry me about that
for a while.
don't touch the girls
she's up seeing my doctor
trying to get some diet pills;
she's not fat, she needs the speed.
I go down to the nearest bar and wait.
at 3:30 in the afternoon of a tuesday.
they have a dancer.
there's only one other man in the bar.
she works out
looking at herself in the mirror.
she's like a monkey
dark
Korean.
she's not very good,
skinny and obvious
and she sticks her tongue out at me
then at the other man.
times must be truly hard, I think.
I have a few more beers then get up to leave.
she waves me over.
"you go?" she asks.
"yes," I say, "my wife has cancer."
I shake her hand.
she points to a sign behind her:
DON'T TOUCH THE GIRLS.
She points to the sign and says,
"the sign says, 'DON'T TOUCH THE GIRLS'."
I go back to the parking lot and wait.
she comes out.
"did you get the pills?" I ask.
"yes," she says.
"then it's been a successful day."
I think of the dancer walking across my
kitchen. I can't visualize it. I am going
to die alone
just the way I live.
"take me to my place," she says,
"I've got to get ready for night school."
"sure," I say and drive her on in.
dark shades
I never wear dark shades
but this red head went to get
a prescription filled on Hollywood Blvd.
and she kept haggling and working at
me, snapping and snarling.
I left her at the prescription counter
and walked around and got a large tube of
Crest and a giant bottle of Joy.
then I walked up to
the dark shade display rack and bought
the most vicious pair of shades
I could find.
we paid for our things
walked down to a Mexican place
and she ordered a taco she couldn't eat
and sat there
haggling and snapping and snarling at me
and after eating I ordered 3 beers
drank them down
then put on my shades.
"o my God," she said, "o my God shit!"
and I ripped her up both sides
most excellent riposte
snarling stinking marmalade shots
shit blows
farts from hell,
then I got up
paid
she following me out
both of us in shades
and sidewalks split.
we found her car
got in and drove off
me sitting there
pushing the shades back against my nose.
ripping out her backbone
and waving it out the window
like a broken Confederate flagpole . . .
dark and vicious shades help.
"o my God shit!" she said,
and the sun was up
and I didn't know it.
there were a bargain for $4.25
even though I had left the Crest
and the Joy behind
at the taco place.
prayer in bad weather
by God, I don't know what to
do.
they're so nice to have around.
they have a way of playing with
the balls
and looking at the cock very
seriously
turning it
tweeking it
examining each part
as their long hair falls on
your belly.
it's not the fucking and sucking
alone that reaches into a man
and softens him, it's the extras,
it's all the extras.
now it's raining tonight
and there's nobody
they are elsewhere
examining things
in new bedrooms
in new moods
or maybe in old
bedrooms.
anyhow, it's raining tonight,
one hell of a dashing, pouring
rain. . . .
very little to do.
I've read the newspaper
paid the gas bill
the electric co.
the phone bill.
it keeps raining.
they soften a man
and then let him swim
in his own juice.
I need an old-fashioned whore
at the door tonight
closing her green umbrella,
drops of moonlit rain on her
purse, saying, "shit, man,
can't you get better music
than that on your radio?
and turn up the heat . . ."
it's always when a man's swollen
with love and everything
else
that it keeps raining
splattering
flooding
rain
good for the trees and the
grass and the air ...
good for things that
live alone.
I would give anything
for a female's hand on me
tonight.
they soften a man and
then leave him
listening to the rain.
melancholia
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in dirty sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing is
solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ass.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ass
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.
a stethoscope case
my doctor has just come into his office
from surgery.
he meets me in the men's john.
"God damn," he says to me,
"where did you find her? oh, I just like
to look at girls like that!"
I tell him: "it's my specialty: cement
hearts and beautiful bodies. If you can find
a heart-beat, let me know."
"I'll take good care of her," he says.
"yes, and please remember all the ethical
codes of your honorable profession," I tell
him.
he zips up first then washes.
"how's your health?" he asks.
"physically I'm sound as a tic. mentally I'm
wasted, doomed, on my tiny cross, all that
crap."
"I'll take good care of her."
"yes. and let me know about the heart-beat."
he walks out.
I finish, zip up and also walk out.
only I don't wash up.
I'm far beyond all that.
eat your heart out
I've come by, she says, to tell you
that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange
her long red hair before my bedroom
mirror.
she pulls her hair up and
piles it on top of her head--
she lets her eyes look at
my eyes--
then she drops the hair and
lets it fall down in front of her face.
we go to bed and I hold her
speechlessly from the back
my arm around her neck
I touch her wrists and hands
feel up to
her elbows
no further.
she gets up.
this is it, she says,
eat your heart out. you
got any rubber bands?
I don't know.
here's one, she says,
this will do. well,
I'm going.
I get up and walk her
to the door
just as she leaves
she says,
I want you to buy me
some high-heeled shoes
with tall thin spikes,
black high-heeled shoes.
no, I want them
red.
I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees
she walks all right and
as the poinsettias drip in the sun
I close the door.
the retreat
this time has finished me.
I feel like the German troops
whipped by snow and the communists
walking bent
with newspapers stuffed into
worn boots.
my plight is just as terrible.
maybe more so.
victory was so close
victory was there.
as she stood before my mirror
younger and more beautiful than
any woman I had ever known
combing yards and yards of red hair
as I watched her.
and when she came to bed
she was more beautiful than ever
and the love was very very good.
eleven months.
now she's gone
gone as they go.
this time has finished me.
i's a long road back
and back to where?
the guy ahead of me
falls.
I step over him.
did she get him too?
I made a mistake
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue panties
and showed them to her and
asked "are these yours?"
and she looked and said,
"no, those belong to a dog."
she left after that and I haven't seen
her since. she's not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
went.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is the end of Part Three 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.
