The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses

Charles Bukowski

• Publisher: Ecco
• Year: 2009
• Topic: Literature
• Print ISBN:
  9780876850053
• Subtopic: Classics
• eBook ISBN:
  9780061857294
• Index: Literature

“The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles.”—Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author

“He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”—Leonard Cohen, songwriter

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses is a book of poems written by Charles Bukowski for Jane, his first love. The collection tracks the author through boarding house rooms, racetrack grandstands, and graveyard services across southern California.

Bukowski records the daily hazards of cheap wine, skid row rents, and afternoons wagering on longshots at Del Mar. He grounds these rough street portraits in quiet hours spent beside a radio playing Brahms and Mahler in the dark.

Throughout the volume, he returns to the sudden grief of Jane’s death and the memory of her black dresses. These poems explore a more emotional side to Charles Bukowski.

• Dirty Realism: Bukowski recounts working as a skid row rooming house manager in Detroit, hauling trash and facing tenants in dirty undershirts.
• Raw Honesty: The poems mock academic poetry workshops, university seminars, and pretentious literary discussions over coffee and wine.
• Urban Poetry: Verses document encounters across Chinatown bars, night bus stations, and late drives avoiding police stations after midnight.
• Racetrack Culture: Bukowski chronicles specific betting runs at Hollywood Park, throwing winnings into the air after victories on Determine and My Boy Bobby.
• Also by This Author: You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense, Love is a Dog From Hell and The Last Night of the Earth Poems.

I

get your name in LIGHTS
get it up there in
8½ x 11 mimeo

what a man I was

I shot off his left ear

then his right,

and then tore off his belt buckle

with hot lead,

and then

I shot off everything that counts

and when he bent over

to pick up his drawers

and his marbles

(poor critter)

I fixed it so he wouldn’t have

to straighten up

no more.

Ho Hum.

I went in for a fast snort

and one guy seemed

to be looking at me sideways,

and that’s how he died—

sideways,

lookin’ at me

and clutchin’

for his marbles.

Sight o’ blood made me kinda

hungry.

Had a ham sandwich.

Played a couple of sentimental songs…

Shot out all the lights

and strolled outside.

Didn’t seem to be no one around

so I shot my horse

(poor critter).

Then I saw the Sheerf

a standin’ at the end a’ the road

and he was shakin’

like he had the Saint Vitus dance;

it was a real sorrowful sight

so I slowed him to a quiver

with the first slug

and mercifully stiffened him

with the second.

Then I laid on my back awhile

and I shot out the stars one by one

and then

I shot out the moon

and then I walked around

and shot out every light

in town,

and pretty soon it began to get dark

real dark

the way I like it;

just can’t stand to sleep

with no light shinin’

on my face.

I laid down and dreamt

I was a little boy again

a playin’ with my toy six-shooter

and winnin’ all the marble games,

and when I woke up

my guns was gone

and I was all bound hand and foot

just like somebody

was scared a me

and they was slippin’

a noose around my ugly neck

just as if they

meant to hang me,

and some guy was pinnin’

a real pretty sign

on my shirt:

there’s a law for you

and a law for me

and a law that hangs

from the foot of a tree.

Well, pretty poetry always did

make my eyes water

and can you believe it

all the women was cryin’

and though they was moanin’

other men’s names

I just know they was cryin’

for me (poor critters)

and though I’d slept with all a them,

I’d forgotten

in all the big excitement

to tell ’em my name

and all the men looked angry

but I guess it was because the kids

was all being impolite

and a throwin’ tin cans at me,

but I told ’em not to worry

because their aim was bad anyhow

not a boy there looked like he’d turn

into a man—

90% homosexuals, the lot of them,

and some guy shouted

“let’s send him to hell!”

and with a jerk I was dancin’

my last dance,

but I swung out wide

and spit in the bartender’s eye

and stared down

into Nellie Adam’s breasts,

and my mouth watered again.

mine

She lays like a lump

I can feel the great empty mountain

of her head.

But she is alive. She yawns and

scratches her nose and

pulls up the cover.

Soon I will kiss her goodnight

and we will sleep.

and far away is Scotland

and under the ground the

gophers run.

I hear engines in the night

and through the sky a white

hand whirls:

good night, dear, goodnight.

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Table of contents

• Dedication
• Contents
• Part I
• Part II
• Part III
• About the Author
• By Charles Bukowski
• Copyright
• About the Publisher