I liked him

liked D . H. Lawrence
he could get so indignant
he snapped and he ripped
with wonderfully energetic sentences
he could lay the word down
bright and writhing
there was the stink of blood and murder
and sacrifice about him
the only tenderness he allowed
was when he bedded down his large German
liked D. H. Lawrence—
he could talk about Christ
like he was the man next door
and he could describe Australian taxi drivers
so well you hated them
liked D. H. Lawrence
but I’m glad I never met him
in some bistro
him lifting his tiny hot cup of
and looking at me
with his worm-hole eyes.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...