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I always wanted to ball
Henry Miller, she said,
but by the time I got there
it was too late.
 
damn it, I said, you girls
always arrive too late.
I’ve already masturbated
twice today.
 
that wasn’t his problem,
she said. by the way,
how come you flog-off
so much?
 
it’s the space, I said,
all that space between
poems and stories, it’s
intolerable.
 
you should wait, she said,
you’re impatient.
 
what do you think of Celine?
I asked.
 
I wanted to ball him too.
 
dead now, I said.
dead now, she said.
 
care to hear a little
music? I asked.
might as well, she said.
 
I gave her Ives.
 
that’s all I had left
that night.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...



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