“9:17 AM I see Lucy has a new Template, after the blue i’ve been positively blinded. Christ. Like the final scene from 2001.”
Gee ..cheers Col, this bastard took me agges, and all I had to do was pick the fckin colours. Is it not a “perky” kind of blue? Anyway lookee see ..the archives? Put there by popular request, well alright just you, but hey.
Anyway, offence at my colour pickin’ skills aside, I’m interrupting normal broadcasting to bring you all some gutter literature from everyone’s favourite drunk at the helm of a typewriter.
the icecream people (Charles Bukowski)
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight�
instead of listening to Shostakovitch and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities: we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint…
we park outside and look at the icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
�what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I�m going in for a walnut peach sundae?�
�come on, chicken,� she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a leper in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. �you�re looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while…�)
�those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals…
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other�s
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Copyright � 1999 by Linda Lee Bukowski.
Reprinted from WHAT MATTERS MOST IS HOW WELL YOU WALK THROUGH THE FIRE