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Essential Bukowski: Poetry

Год написания книги
2019
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where the landlady stood

execrating and final,

sending me to hell,

waving her fat, sweaty arms

and screaming

screaming for rent

because the world had failed us

both.

old man, dead in a room (#ulink_72ceda9f-e3e0-5eb1-aff0-c497dc75c04e)

this thing upon me is not death

but it’s as real,

and as landlords full of maggots

pound for rent

I eat walnuts in the sheath

of my privacy

and listen for more important

drummers;

it’s as real, it’s as real

as the broken-boned sparrow

cat-mouthed to utter

more than mere

and miserable argument;

between my toes I stare

at clouds, at seas of gaunt

sepulcher . . .

and scratch my back

and form a vowel

as all my lovely women

(wives and lovers)

break like engines

into some steam of sorrow

to be blown into eclipse;

bone is bone

but this thing upon me

as I tear the window shades

and walk caged rugs,

this thing upon me

like a flower and a feast,

believe me

is not death and is not

glory

and like Quixote’s windmills

makes a foe

turned by the heavens

against one man;

. . . this thing upon me,

great god,

this thing upon me

crawling like a snake,

terrifying my love of commonness,
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