Love is a Dog from Hell Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 Naturáles , 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
    roof 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¢ 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 they 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