Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Big Night On The Town


drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • Oliver Brookshore (10/27/2007 5:59:00 AM)

    A great poem. Gripping 'blow-by-blow' imagery in such detail that the reader is fixated upon each word. An interesting and almost careless way of arranging lines. An excellent piece. (Report) Reply

  • Hanne Breivik (12/6/2006 2:22:00 PM)

    I love the dark, but somehow optimistic tone here, shown through the slightly feeling of the small piece of pride still left. I love it for the never-judging sentences and raw, and still sudden words. (Report) Reply

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