Friday, February 8, 2008

down by the wings - charles bukowski

they speak of angels or she
speaks of angels
from a plateglass window overlooking the
Sunset Strip
(she has these visions)
(I don't have these visions)
but maybe angels prefer people with
daughters of rich farmers who are dying of
throat cancer in Brazil.
myself - I keep seeing these
wingless creatures of mean story and dismal
and she says
when I defame her
you are trying to
pull me down
by the wings.

she's going to Europe in the summer -
Greece, Italy, most probably
Paris and she's
taking some of her angels with
not all
but some.
now there's this half-Chinese boy who used to
sleep on fire escapes
the Negro homosexual who plays chess and
recited Shelley at the Sensualist

then there's the one who has real talent with the
brush (Nickey) but who simply can't get
somehow and
there's also Sieberling who cries because he
love his mother (actually).

many of these
will leave town and
flow around the
Arch of Triump
to be photographed or
to chase beetles at
9 rue Git-le-Coeur, and
it's going to be a hot and
lonesome summer
for many of us when
the devil walks in and retakes Hollywood
once more.

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