Treasure Island

Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Prayer In Bad Weather


by God, I don't know what to

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • Daniel Horne (3/4/2012 8:38:00 PM)

    by God, I don't know what to
    do.
    they're so nice to have around.
    they have a way of playing with
    the balls
    and looking at the cock very
    seriously
    turning it
    tweaking it
    examining each part
    as their long hair falls on
    your belly.
    it's not the fucking and sucking
    alone that reaches into a man
    and softens him, it's the extras,
    it's all the extras.
    now it's raining tonight
    and there's nobody
    they are elsewhere
    examining things
    in new bedrooms
    in new moods
    or maybe in old
    bedrooms.
    anyhow, it's raining tonight,
    on hell of a dashing, pouring
    rain….
    very little to do.
    I've read the newspaper
    paid the gas bill
    the electric co.
    the phone bill.
    it keeps raining.
    they soften a man
    and then let him swim
    in his own juice.
    I need an old-fashioned whore
    at the door tonight
    closing her green umbrella,
    drops her green umbrella,
    drops of moonlit rain on her
    purse, saying shit, man,
    can't you get better music
    than that on your radio?
    and turn up the heat…
    it's always when a man's swollen
    with love and everything
    else
    that keeps raining
    splattering
    flooding
    rain
    good for the trees and the
    grass and the air…
    good for things that
    live alone.
    I would give anything
    for a female's hand on me
    tonight.
    they soften a man and
    then leave him
    listening to the rain. (Report) Reply

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