Charles Bukowski, Graffiti, Rue d'Alsace im 10, Arrondissement von Paris by GFreihalter
by Charles Bukowski
god I got the sad blue blues, this woman sat there and she said are you really Charles Bukowski? and I said forget that I do not feel good I've got the sad sads all I want to do is fuck you and she laughed she thought I was being clever and O I just looked up her long slim legs of heaven I saw her liver and her quivering intestine I saw Christ in there jumping to a folk-rock all the long lines of starvation within me rose and I walked over and grabbed her on the couch ripped her dress up around her face and I didn't care rape or the end of the earth one more time to be there anywhere real yes her panties were on the floor and my cock went in my cock my god my cock went in I was Charles Somebody.
And the cat jumped over the Milk Moon, the Spoon Moon, the Sleepy
Mean Moon. Not the Flying Fish Moon. Or the Tiger Shark
Moon. Moon of the Terrible. Moon of the Raccoon.
Not the moon that swung atop the arboretum: the Peach Moon. Peony
Moon. The Moon When Trees Pop. The Lotus Moon, Mum Moon.
Raspberry, Blackberry, or Sassafras Moon. It was the pelican that
perched on the Crane Moon.
The cat never jumped over the secret moon peeping out of swift, high cloud:
The Bony Moon, the Windy Moon. The Hungry Moon. Moon of Ice.
Singing Moon, o Mulberry Moon
With a full-moon’s might.
The maroon-colored cat jumped over the magnificent Moon of Horses.
The Moon When Geese Return in Scattered Formation. Moon When
the Calves Grow Hair. The Moon When Leaves Are Green. The Moon
When Leaves Are Gone.
Never the dreaded Dragon Moon. The Panther Moon. The Moon When
Horns Are Broken Off. Never the Twelfth Moon when a million
brilliant eyes light dense bramble
Below that most hallowed one:
The Moon When Eyes Are Sore From Staring at Bright Moon-Lit Snow.
The cat belongs to Me. The cat belongs To the house. The cat belongs to The other cat. The cat Belongs to itself. The cat Belongs to the forest. The Cat belongs to the bird and mouse. The cat belongs to the mountain lion. The cat belongs to no one. The cat Belongs to nothing. The cat belongs To everyone, everything.
The cat has a name That I gave it. Everyone knows the cat’s name Is not its name. It is my name for the cat. Sometimes the cat refuses to acknowledge This name and sometimes the cat Plays along with the life I’ve created for the cat. Sometimes the cat pretends that it doesn’t live in a realm Different from the one that the cat and I Live in together. The cat has needs that must be met For the cat to live in my house, though most of the cat’s time Is spent elsewhere. I invite the cat to live with me So I can perceive some of the “elsewhere” In which the cat spends much cat time. The cat shares what I can’t see by maintaining An existence in my house and by responding to The name I gave the cat.
I know there will be a moment In the circuitry of space-time in which the cat will discard The name and forsake my house for good And will exist only in the fields I cannot see without the cat living in my house. On that day, I might say, “The cat has moved full-time into the wild.” Or I might say, “Miau-miau has run away.”
The most recent books by Martine Bellen are GHOSTS! (Spuyten Duyvil) and2X2 (BlazeVOX).
Oh there once was a woman and she kept a shop selling trinkets to tourists not far from a dock who came to see what life could be far back on the island.
And it was always a party there always different but very nice New friends to give you advice or fall in love with you which is nice and each grew so perfectly from the other it was a marvel of poetry and irony
And in this unsafe quarter much was scary and dirty but no one seemed to mind very much the parties went on from house to house There were friends and lovers galore all around the store There was moonshine in winter and starshine in summer and everybody was happy to have discovered what they discovered
And then one day the ship sailed away There were no more dreamers just sleepers in heavy attitudes on the dock moving as if they knew how among the trinkets and the souvenirs the random shops of modern furniture and a gale came and said it is time to take all of you away from the tops of the trees to the little houses on little paths so startled
And when it became time to go they none of them would leave without the other for they said we are all one here and if one of us goes the other will not go and the wind whispered it to the stars the people all got up to go and looked back on love