ANOTHER ONE OF MY CRITICS
I haven't written a good poem
in weeks, she's 5
and she walks in,
"bastard, when are you going to get
out of bed?"
it's ten minutes to noon
so I get up and walk to the typewriter.
she walks up with a coonskin cap on and
stares at me.
"DON'T BUG ME!" I scream, "I AM WRITING!"
"imbecile," she says and walks off.
staring at this sheet of white paper
I begin to think that some of my critics are
right.
she walks into the room again and looks at
me.
"blubbermouth," she says, "hello, blubbermouth."
I ignore her.
she reaches up and tugs at my beard.
"hey, when you gonna take that mask off?
I'm sick of that mask."
then she goes to the bathroom
and with the door open she sits on the pot.
she strains: "urrg, urrg, urrg..."
I look over.
"listen, you're supposed to close the bathroom
door when you do that."
"well, close it then, dummy..." she says.
I get up and close it.
I know a writer who spent 2 thousand dollars
to have a cork-lined room built for
himself but it still didn't improve his
work. I think I'll take my chances
this way.
Charles Bukowski in: intrepid ANTHOLOGY, 1976
(ed. Allen Deloach)
I hope the Poem database is up to date!
I haven't written a good poem
in weeks, she's 5
and she walks in,
"bastard, when are you going to get
out of bed?"
it's ten minutes to noon
so I get up and walk to the typewriter.
she walks up with a coonskin cap on and
stares at me.
"DON'T BUG ME!" I scream, "I AM WRITING!"
"imbecile," she says and walks off.
staring at this sheet of white paper
I begin to think that some of my critics are
right.
she walks into the room again and looks at
me.
"blubbermouth," she says, "hello, blubbermouth."
I ignore her.
she reaches up and tugs at my beard.
"hey, when you gonna take that mask off?
I'm sick of that mask."
then she goes to the bathroom
and with the door open she sits on the pot.
she strains: "urrg, urrg, urrg..."
I look over.
"listen, you're supposed to close the bathroom
door when you do that."
"well, close it then, dummy..." she says.
I get up and close it.
I know a writer who spent 2 thousand dollars
to have a cork-lined room built for
himself but it still didn't improve his
work. I think I'll take my chances
this way.
Charles Bukowski in: intrepid ANTHOLOGY, 1976
(ed. Allen Deloach)
I hope the Poem database is up to date!