Yeah Poems: 37 / 500

The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid

Rating: 4.3

I can see myself now
after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes
(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal and bored nurse
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair
almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull
looking
for the mercy of death
Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski
O, yeah, yeah
the children walk past and I don't even exist
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don't even
exist
It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days,
Mr. Bukowski.
Oh, yeah, yeah.
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,
gone
Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski
O, yeah, yeah pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of
my mouth.
2 young schoolboys run by —
Hey, did you see that old guy
Christ, yes, he made me sick!
after all the threats to do so
somebody else has committed suicide for me
at last.
the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,
puts it in my hand.
I don't even know
what it is. it might as well be my pecker
for all the good
it does.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Yeah Poems: 37 / 500
Topic(s) of this poem: suicide
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Mark Arvizu 14 September 2015

Wine is fine but whiskey's quicker-John Osborne

6 1 Reply
Ricky 30 December 2017

It's liquor's quicker

0 0 Reply
Dr Antony Theodore 05 April 2020

bloodless, brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski, gone Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski O, yeah, yeah in my pajamas, slop drooling out of my mouth. strange is it.. tony

0 0 Reply
Sirius Frost 28 December 2019

Isn't it a lovely day, Mr Bukowski? I walk on the broken pieces of that paper heart, and breathe the cold air from a dying holiday. Black or white, white or Black

1 0 Reply
Michael Walker 23 October 2019

I would not like to end up in 'a sterile rest home' and so far I haven't. 'Suicide' is a strong word, but it mirrors his fears. The wheelchair is another fear.

0 0 Reply
Robison 21 March 2018

My God, this is exactly what I fear. I led a life of partying from noon till close most days of the week with beautiful, beautiful women. Juke box cranked up, bartenders making sure there were two open seats when we came in. No memory of getting home, hangovers became the norm. God this poem haunts.

3 0 Reply
* Sunprincess * 23 April 2016

..........a great write, my favorite line ? Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski

3 1 Reply