say
Céline at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky...
or Hamsun...
or panda.....
ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes,
ordinary men with hair on their heads
sitting there typing words
while having difficulties with life
while being puzzled almost to madness.
Dostoevsky gets up
he leaves the machine to piss,
comes back
drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
the casino and
the roulette wheel.
Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
died today, I won't have to make any more
visits there.
when I saw him last
he paid his doctor bill;
it's those who don't pay their bills,
they live on and on.
Céline walks back, sits down at the
machine
is still for a good two minutes
then begins to type.
a panda at the backdoor.
Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,
I wonder if they are going to believe
all these things I write?
he sits down, begins to type.
he doesn't know what a writer's block
is:
he's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
damn near as magnificent as
the sun.
he types away.
and I laugh
not out loud
but all up and down these walls, these
dirty yellow and blue walls
my white cat asleep on the
table
hiding his eyes from the
light.
he's not alone tonight
and neither am
I.
6 comments:
This sounds like something that should be published by "Olympia Press."
Pandas get all the hot chicks.
Bukowski gets up from his typewriter
Walks to the window
Stares out at the LA smog
Knows that someday somewhere someone
Who wants to get in on the act
They always want to get in on the act
Will insert
Panda in the backdoor
In the middle of a Bukowski poem
The author of A Thousand Assholes and Mine
Is resigned to that joke
Turns back to the typewriter
Because what else is he going to do
In the few thousand days left (he hopes) before
Oblivion.
Damn, Ricpic, by Jove, I think you have it!
ricpic never fails to impress with his poetry.
Thanks gents.
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