Bukowski Cut-up

"Europeans deserve Bukowski."
-William Burroughs, in conversation


1
and the birds come
down to pick out my
eyes it does seem a
miracle to see anybody
alive strange eyes in my
head they wait on death
I keep practicing death
things are good as I am
not dead yet laughing at
nothing and here come
the armies ta ta ta kill
myself or love myself?




2
smell porkchopsin a Philly bar
was in a barfornicate like mad
symphony music nowout to crap
I hate the artsdead on a sunday
a new can of beergo mad or even
and I criedthey play Bartok
oh my dear godanother drink
bellies hanging outto his radio
rose with a cursedays like this
pick up the skirtdie a little earlier
and the weepingthe last pink sun
dying is justifiedpansies in a glass
now I am a manworms laughed
the virus holdsand I didn't care
all has gone awayradio playing
fish-green beerI watch her butt
white dishtowelpoem is a city
talking of deatheats my heart
another placebeat again feel




3
sunlight
wall
sunlight

doors
getting haircuts

I drink
I drink
and death