CHARLES BUKOWSKI
PLAY THE PIANO DRUNK LIKE A PERCUSSION INSTRUMENT UNTIL THE FINGERS BEGIN TO BLEED A BIT
for Linda Lee Beighle,
the best
waiting
in a life full of little stories
for a death to come
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Epigraph
tough company
12-24-78
an ideal
leaning on wood
the souls of dead animals
another argument
the red porsche
some picnic
the drill
40,000 flies
the strangest thing
the paper on the floor
2 flies
through the streets of anywhere
fire station
an argument over Marshal Foch
40 cigarettes
a killer gets ready
I love you
a little atomic bomb
the egg
the knifer
the ladies of summer
I’m in love
the apple
the violin player
5 dollars
cooperation
the night I was going to die
2347 Duane
a radio with guts
Solid State Marty
interviews
face of a political candidate on a street billboard
Yankee Doodle
blue moon, oh bleweeww mooooon how I adore you!
nothing is as effective as defeat
success
Africa, Paris, Greece
the drunk tank judge
claws of paradise
the loner
the sandwich
the happy life of the tired
the proud thin dying
under
hot month
maybe tomorrow
junk
8 rooms
I liked him
the killer smiles
horse and fist
close encounters of another kind
mermaid
hug the dark
59 cents a pound
promenade
metamorphosis
we’ll take them
dow average down
to weep
fair stand the fields of France
art
about the author
other books by charles bukowski
cover
copyright
about the publisher
tough company
poems like gunslingers
sit around and
shoot holes in my windows
chew on my toilet paper
read the race results
take the phone off the
hook.
poems like gunslingers
ask me
what the hell my game is,
and
would I like to
shoot it out?
take it easy, I say,
the race is not to
the swift.
the poem sitting at the
south end of the couch
draws
says
balls off for that
one!
take it easy, pardner, I
have plans for
you.
plans, huh? what
plans?
The New Yorker,
pard.
he puts his iron
away.
the poem sitting in the
stretches
looks at me:
you know, fat boy, you
been pretty lazy
lately.
fuck off
I say
who’s running this
game?
we’re running this
game
say all the
gunslingers
drawing iron:
get
with it!
so
here you
are:
this poem
was the one
who was sitting
on top of the
refrigerator
flipping
beercaps.
and now
I’ve got him
out of the way
and all the others
are sitting around pointing
their weapons at me and
saying:
I’m next, I’m next, I’m
next!
I suppose that when
I die
the leftovers
will jump some other
poor
son of a bitch.
12-24-78
I suck on this beer
in my kitchen
and think about
cleaning my fingernails
and shaving
as I listen to the
classical radio
station.
they play holiday
music.
I prefer to hear Christmas
music in July
while I am being threatened
with death by
a woman.
that’s
when I need it—
that’s
when I need
Bing Crosby and the
elves and
some fast
reindeer.
now I sit here
listening to this
slop in
season—it’s such
a sugar tit—
I’d rather play a game of
ping-pong with
the risen ghost
of Hitler.
amateur drunks run their cheerful
cars into each other
the ambulances sing to each
other outside.
an ideal
the Waxmans, she said,
he starved,
all these builders wanted to
buy him;
he worked in Paris in London and
even in Africa,
he had his own
concept of
design…
what the fuck? I said,
a starving architect,
eh?
yes, yes, he starved and his
wife and his children
but he was true to
his ideals.
a starving architect,
eh?
yes, he finally came through,
I saw him and his wife last
Wednesday night, the Waxmans…
would you care to meet
them?
tell him, I said, to stick 3 fingers up
his ass
and flick-off.
you’re always so fucking nasty, she said,
knocking over her tall-stemmed
glass of scotch and
water.
uh huh, I said, in honor of
the dead.
leaning on wood
there are 4 or 5 guys at the
racetrack bar.
there is a mirror behind the
bar.
the reflections are not
kind
of the 4 or 5 guys at the
racetrack bar.
there are many bottles at the
racetrack bar.
we order different drinks.
there is a mirror behind the
bar.
the reflections are not
kind.
“it don’t take brains to beat
the horses, it just takes money
and guts.”
our reflections are not
k
ind.
the clouds are outside.
the sun is outside.
the horses are warming up outside.
we stand at the racetrack
bar.
“I’ve been playing the races for
40 years and I still can’t beat
them.”
“you can play the races for another
40 years and you still won’t beat
them.”
the bartender doesn’t like
us.
the 5 minute warning buzzer
sounds.
we finish our drinks and
turn away to make our
bets.
our reflections look better
as we walk away:
you can’t see our
faces.
4 or 5 guys from the racetrack
bar.
what shit. nobody
wins. ask
Caesar.
the souls of dead animals
after the slaughterhouse
there was a bar around the corner
and I sat in there
and watched the sun go down
through the window,
a window that overlooked a lot
full of tall dry weeds.
I never showered with the boys at the
plant
after work
so I smelled of sweat and
blood.
the smell of sweat lessens after a
while
but the blood-smell begins to fulminate
and gain power.
I smoked cigarettes and drank beer
until I felt good enough to
board the bus
with the souls of all those dead
animals riding with
me;
heads would turn slightly
women would rise and move away from
me.
when I got off the bus
I only had a block to walk
and one stairway up to my
room
where I’d turn on my radio and
light a cigarette
and nobody minded me
at all.
another argument
she had an uncle who sniffed her
panties by
firelight while eating
crackerjack and
muffins with honey,
she sat across from me
in that Chinese place
the drinks kept coming and she
talked about Matisse, Iranian
coins, fingerbowls at Cambridge, Pound
at Salerno, Plato at
Madagascar, the death of
Schopenhauer, and the times she and
I had been together and
ebullient.
drunk in the afternoon
I knew she had kept me too long
and when I got back to the other
she was
raving
underprivileged
pissed and
bloody unorthodox burning
mad.
then she said it didn’t matter anymore
and I felt like saying
what do you mean it doesn’t matter anymore?
how can you say it about anything, least of
all us? where are your eyes and your feet and
your head? if the thin blue marching of troops is
correct, we are all about to be
murdered.
the red porsche
it feels good
to be driven about in a red
porsche
by a woman better-
read than I
am.
it feels good
to be driven about in a red
porsche
by a woman who can explain
things about
classical
music to
me.
it feels good
to be driven about in a red
porsche
by a woman who buys
things for my refrigerator
and my
kitchen:
cherries, plums, lettuce, celery,
green onions, brown onions,
eggs, muffins, long
chilis, brown sugar,
Italian seasoning, oregano, white
wine vinegar, pompeian olive oil
and red
radishes.
I like being driven about
in a red porsche
while I smoke cigarettes in
gentle languor.
I’m lucky. I’ve always been
lucky:
even when I was starving to death
the bands were playing for
me.
but the red porsche is very nice
and she is
too, and
I’ve learned to feel good when
I feel good.
it’s better to be driven around in a
red porsche
than to own
one. the luck of the fool is
inviolate.
some picnic
which reminds me
I shacked with Jane for 7 years
she was a drunk
I loved her
my parents hated her
I hated my parents
it made a nice
foursome
one day we went on a picnic
together
up in the hills
and we played cards and drank beer and
ate potato salad and weenies
they talked to her as if she were a living person
at last
everybody laughed
I didn’t laugh.
later at my place
over the whiskey
I said to her,
I don’t like them
but it’s good they treated you
nice.
you damn fool, she said,
don’t you see?
see what?
they keep looking at my beer-belly,
they think I’m
pregnant.
oh, I said, well here’s to our beautiful
child.
here’s to our beautiful child,
she said.
we drank them down.
the drill
our marriage book, it
says.
I look through it.
they lasted ten years.
they were young once.
now I sleep in her bed.
he phones her:
“I want my drill back.
have it ready.
I’ll pick the children up at
ten.”
when he arrives he waits outside
the door.
his children leave with
him.
she comes back to bed
and I stretch a leg out
place it against hers.
I was young once too.
human relationships simply aren’t
durable.