Sunday, 11 May 2014

a preview

an almost made up poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny 
they are small, and the fountain is in France 
where you wrote me that last letter and 
I answered and never heard from you again. 
you used to write insane poems about 
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you 
knew famous artists and most of them 
were your lovers, and i wrote back, it's all right, 
go ahead, enter their lives, i'm not jealous 
because we've never met. we got close once in 
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never 
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote 
about the famous, and of course, what you found out 
is that the famous are worried about 
their fame - not the beautiful young girl in bed 
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens 
in the morning to write upper case poems about 
ANGELS AND GOD. we know GOD is dead, they've told 
us, but listening to you I wasn't sure. maybe 
it was the upper case. you were on of the 
best female poets and i told the publishers, 
editors, "print her, print her, she's mad but she's
magic. there's no lie in her fire." i loved you 
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have 
loved you more if i had sat in a small room rolling a 
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, 
but that didn't happen. your letters got sadder. 
your lovers betrayed you. kid, i wrote back, all 
lovers betray. it didn't help. you said 
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and 
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying 
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had 
hurt and forgotten you. i wrote back but never 
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide 
3 or 4 months after it happened. if i had met you 
i would probably have been unfair to you or you 
to me. it was best like this. 

-Charles Bukowski, love is a dog from hell