City burned forward in a conundrum, fucking sunlight spilling downward a weight on to my white skin. And San Francisco suffers a melanin deficiant tan that is in no way connected to global warming, yet has all the signs and symptoms of such. Girl stops me and says "Want to contribute money to help strengthen the democrates? The republicans have raised over 20 billion dollars in a recent fund raiser, so we need your help, just give your name and number..." "George fucking Hearst was a fucking democrate you bi-partison twat, thank you but no thank you!" "Have a nice day asshole! Jerk! God!" -- more customers stream forward, seeing a sudden break in their patron's feigned pleasantness.
Pleasantness... everything is so pleasant, its like a huge fucking diaper placed over people's eyes. I'm reading Bukowski some shit-on place of the city... not quite as bad as Market.
The Hustle
the readings in those college towns were hell,
of course, but i liked the flying in and out,
drinking on the planes, and I liked the hotels,
the impersonal rooms
the nights before the readings were best
stretched out on the bed in a strange town
the fifth of whisky on the night stand
and, you know, those hotels were quiet ...
those southern hotels
and especially those midwestern hotels
it was a stupid hustle but it beat the factories
I knew that, but it was humorious to me
and ridiculous that
I was accepted as a POET
but after I examined the work of my compatriots
I nolonger minded taking the money
and after hearing some of them read
I hardly felt the imposter at all
although I knew I was abit crazy
especially after drinking
and that
I just might
some night
take out my hose and start pissing from the
podium ...
some of the profs must have guessed
for after I accepted an invitation to read
most wrote back to me:
"I hope you won't cost me my job ... "
second best, I remember
the adoring eyes of the coeds
but first of all, like I said, I liked
all those hotel rooms the night before the
readings
me sitting up in bed, smoking, sucking
on the fifth, sick of looking at the poems
thinking, if I can fool them its all right
worse have, many more will
no wonder this world isnt very
much
then I'd go for a big gulp of the fifth
say, at 2:30 am
it was just like being back
home.
- Bukowski "War all the Time"
Pleasantness... everything is so pleasant, its like a huge fucking diaper placed over people's eyes. I'm reading Bukowski some shit-on place of the city... not quite as bad as Market.
The Hustle
the readings in those college towns were hell,
of course, but i liked the flying in and out,
drinking on the planes, and I liked the hotels,
the impersonal rooms
the nights before the readings were best
stretched out on the bed in a strange town
the fifth of whisky on the night stand
and, you know, those hotels were quiet ...
those southern hotels
and especially those midwestern hotels
it was a stupid hustle but it beat the factories
I knew that, but it was humorious to me
and ridiculous that
I was accepted as a POET
but after I examined the work of my compatriots
I nolonger minded taking the money
and after hearing some of them read
I hardly felt the imposter at all
although I knew I was abit crazy
especially after drinking
and that
I just might
some night
take out my hose and start pissing from the
podium ...
some of the profs must have guessed
for after I accepted an invitation to read
most wrote back to me:
"I hope you won't cost me my job ... "
second best, I remember
the adoring eyes of the coeds
but first of all, like I said, I liked
all those hotel rooms the night before the
readings
me sitting up in bed, smoking, sucking
on the fifth, sick of looking at the poems
thinking, if I can fool them its all right
worse have, many more will
no wonder this world isnt very
much
then I'd go for a big gulp of the fifth
say, at 2:30 am
it was just like being back
home.
- Bukowski "War all the Time"