Poem by Charles Bukowski
he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of
as well as the leg shaped by it.
and she was out again and when he came home,and
she'd come back with that special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m in the morning
filthy like a dung eating swine
he took out a butchers knife
and she screamed
backing into the rooming house wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.
that yellow dress
and she screamed again.
and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his balls.
and carried them in his hands
and flushed them down the
and she kept screaming
as the room became red
GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
no caring now whether she left or
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.
and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
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