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In most of my circles, I get the impression from most of my uppity buddies that the works of writer Charles Bukowski are grossly undervalued. I'll hear something like, "Bukowski? Whatever ..." Blow me. You know who you are.
It's a crime. The more and more I discover his often anti-social prose - and believe you-me, there's a ton of it - the more I discover something new and intriguing. In this quick update, check out this poem that explores the notion of a simple evening out. Lord knows, we who love scotch, have been there.
Big Night On The Town
drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.
- Charles Bukowski
