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
each heel
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
and
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
his favorite
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
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
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
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.
and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine
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From guest k (contact)
i can see where people are coming from saying they can't see what people like about bukowski when they're reading his poetry. it's not for everyone. but have you read his novels? i've not spoken to a single person who doesn't love them. ham on rye's probably a good start. -
I see I've already commented on this piece center justifying this poem makes it a little less enjoyable. I highly doubt Bukowski would ever center his poetry.
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Unfortunately I cannot lay my hands on a printed text version at the moment and other internet versions cocncur with this. However they could all have a common source.
If you could cite your reference I will check and ammend as necessary.
Jim
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wow, thats a damn thing to do to show your(e) nuts
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makes Van Gogh's ear look like penny ante.
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jesus h christ....like see what i did? wow and poured another glass of wine......wow.
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Seems to me as if it was his act of vengeance.....making her mental de-masculation of him an actual physical de-masculation. Disturbing. And raw.
~ ~ Sincerely, Janet ~ ~
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I think you have to look past the balls being cut off. I think its a symbol of how sex controls us, he had interest because she had something he wanted. With that gone, he just wanted more wine.
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I don't know, any time I read Bukowski, it is like reading words thrown at the paper. Just there. As with this piece, it is just there.
I have never seen what people like in his works, they are just so adynamic. -
This man has no bridled sense at all. He unleashes all these emotions in such a flagrant way. He is holding his ball and pouring a drink, there is no frantic behavior, no nervousness, just a sceen that leaves you looking like this
and he is perfectly calm! LOL WOW! This poet is off the hook!
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This is disturbing, seems a bit masochistic wrapped in velvet sadism. I don't know, that's pretty much what I see. But I feel there's an underyling tone to it, like a philosophical message about love or something. As if 'I'll cut off my balls but this is who I am, so you take me or you leave me, or just fuck off' pretty much the idealism I get, perhaps wrong, but that's what I read, that's my impression.
Either course, it's a good piece that Bukowski has written here, even if it's a bit edgey.
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I love the way he tells these stories, so matter of factly, even about a man cutting his balls off and then pouring another glass of wine.
That special stink is special.
Also like dung eating swine.
Bukowski is in a class by himself.
Desiree
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