Big Night On The Town

Big Night On The Town

by Charles Bukowski

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.

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Miscellany

Charles-bukowski


Other poems by Charles Bukowski (read randomly)


when Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”
I know what he
meant

this head like a saucer
decorated with everything
as lip to lip we hang

he spoke to mice and sparrows
and his hair was white at the age of 16.
his father beat him every day and his mother

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.

was a truly amazing man
he pretended to be
rich

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,

starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night walking the streets for
hours,

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the

I was always a natural slob
I liked to lay upon the bed
in undershirt (stained, of

We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if

having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.

don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin:
don't undress the mannequin

death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies

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