Monday Apr 18, 2005

0
i can see myself now
after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes
(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal bored nurse...
there i am sitting upright in my wheelshair...
almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull
looking for the mercy of death...

"Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?"

"o, yeah, yeah..."

the children walk past and I don't even exist
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don't even
exist...

"It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days, Mr. Bukowski."

...the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,puts it in my hand.

I don't even know what it is. it might as well be my pecker
for all the good
it does.
VIEW 25 of 25 COMMENTS
dragod:
I'm 63. And you are dangerously
close.

I also read have/read a lot of poetry.

You are dangerously close.


Drago

http://archive.salon.com/comics/dark/2/lady/1999/02/26lady1.html
hygeia:
At first I thought I was reading comments from people trying to lure you back. I guess I never imagined that you would. I used to read your journals to my brother over the phone. I'm pretty sure I could lock the 2 of you in a dark room indefinitely and you'd manage to survive and thrive on will and passion(not at all sexual) alone.

I imagine that if you were to end up in some kind of catatonic state it would be because your mind realized it no longer needed your body to live, everything you ever wanted was yours already. But you know you better.

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