1 мин
Слушать(AI)Confession
waiting for deathlike a catthat will jump on thebedI am so very sorry formy wifeshe will see thisstiffwhite bodyshake it once, thenmaybeagain"Hank!"Hank won''s not my death thatworries me, it's my wifeleft with thispile ofnothing.
I want tolet her know thoughthat all the nightssleepingbeside hereven the uselessargumentswere thingsever splendidand the hard wordsI ever feared to say can now be said:
I loveyou.
Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writ
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Другие работы автора
To The Whore Who Took My Poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem,stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,but jezus;twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you havemypaintings too, my best ones; its stifling:are you trying to crush me out like...
For Jane
225 days under grassand you know more than I they have long taken your blood,you are a dry stick in a this how it works in this roomthe hours of love still make you leftyou took almosteverything I kneel in the nights before tigersth...
Hemingway Never Did This
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on atrain and that they never were recovered I can't match the agony of thisbut the other night I wrote a 3-page poemupon this computerand through my lack of diligence andpracticeand by playi...
2 Flies
The flies are angry bits of life; why are they so angry it seems they want more,it seems almost as if theyare angrythat they are flies;it is not my fault; I sit in the roomwith themand they taunt mewith their agony;it is as if they werel...