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some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
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Comments
Like the voices which speak to you
inside your head, and it is often a
comfort to have him in there too.
Charles Bukowski died in 1994.
And each time I lift a glass of
wine it is a toast for Buk.
Hank
Hank Roth from United States