Saturday = Bukowski

$180 gone

lost my ass at the races
now sitting with the flu
listening to Wagner on the radio
I've got this small heater humming.

I'm not dead yet
yet not dead
I want to see more kneecaps under
tight nylon hose.

I'm re-grouping,
I'm dreaming up the counter-attack.

lost my ass at the races
the Sierra Madre smiling at me
lost my ass at the races
walked through a wall of defeat.

I saw a dead cat this morning
both front legs sheared off
he was lying by the garbage can
as I walked by.

this is the hardest game
defeat grows like flowers
the whores sit in chairs before their doorways
Attila the Hun sleeps in a rubber mask at night.

Wagner dies, Rimbaud quit writing, Christ spit it out.

I lost my ass at the races today
and was reminded of history
of waste and error
and of strangled dreams.

we want it too easy
and this is the hardest game.

the small heater hums
as I smoke
looking at the walls.

- Charles Bukowski, from his book
What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire