On Love. Charles BukowskiЧитать онлайн книгу.
all the love of me goes out to her (for A.M.)
an answer to a critic of sorts
the shower
2 carnations
have you ever kissed a panther?
the best love poem I can write at the moment
balling
hot
smiling, shining, singing
visit to Venice
love poem to Marina
I can hear the sound of human lives being ripped to pieces
for those 3
blue moon, oh bleweeww mooooon how I adore you!
the first love
love
raw with love (for N.W.)
a love poem for all the women I have known
fax
one for the shoeshine man
who in the hell is Tom Jones?
sitting in a sandwich joint just off the freeway
a definition
an acceptance slip
the end of a short affair
one for old snaggle-tooth
prayer for a whore in bad weather
I made a mistake
the 6 foot goddess (for S.D.)
quiet clean girls in gingham dresses
tonight
pacific telephone
hunchback
mermaid
yes
2nd. street, near Hollister, in Santa Monica
the trashing of the dildo
a place to relax
snap snap
for the little one
hello, Barbara
Carson McCullers
Jane and Droll
we get along
it was all right
my walls of love
eulogy to a hell of a dame
love
eulogy
40 years ago in that hotel room
a magician, gone
no luck for that
love poem to a stripper
love crushed like a dead fly
shoes
pulled down shade
Trollius and trellises
turn
oh, I was a ladies’ man!
love poem
a dog
the strong man
the bluebird
the dressmaker
confessions
mine
She lays like a lump.
I can feel the great empty mountain
of her head
but she is alive. She yawns and
scratches her nose and
pulls up the covers.
Soon I will kiss her goodnight
and we will sleep.
And far away is Scotland
and under the ground the
gophers run.
I hear engines in the night
and through the sky a white
hand whirls:
goodnight, dear, goodnight.
layover
Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men—poor
fools—
work.
That moment—to this . . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it’s only one sentence back in my mind—
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when