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The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
Charles Bukowski
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The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
Charles Bukowski
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"The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles."âJoyce Carol Oates, bestselling author
"He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels."âLeonard Cohen, songwriter
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses is a book of poems written by Charles Bukowski for Jane, his first love. These poems explore a more emotional side to Charles Bukowski.
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Sujet
LetteraturaSous-sujet
Poesia americanaI
get your name in LIGHTS
get it up there in
8œ 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 wouldnât 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 thatâs how he diedâ
sideways,
lookinâ at me
and clutchinâ
for his marbles.
Sight oâ blood made me kinda
hungry.
Had a ham sandwich.
Played a couple of sentimental songsâŠ
Shot out all the lights
and strolled outside.
Didnât seem to be no one around
so I shot my horse
(poor critter).
Then I saw the Sheerf
a standinâ at the end aâ the road
and he was shakinâ
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 canât stand to sleep
with no light shininâ
on my face.
I laid down and dreamt
I was a little boy again
a playinâ with my toy six-shooter
and winninâ 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 slippinâ
a noose around my ugly neck
just as if they
meant to hang me,
and some guy was pinninâ
a real pretty sign
on my shirt:
thereâs 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 cryinâ
and though they was moaninâ
other menâs names
I just know they was cryinâ
for me (poor critters)
and though Iâd slept with all a them,
Iâd forgotten
in all the big excitement
to tell âem my name
and all the men looked angry
but I guess it was because the kids
was all being impolite
and a throwinâ tin cans at me,
but I told âem not to worry
because their aim was bad anyhow
not a boy there looked like heâd turn
into a manâ
90% homosexuals, the lot of them,
and some guy shouted
âletâs send him to hell!â
and with a jerk I was dancinâ
my last dance,
but I swung out wide
and spit in the bartenderâs eye
and stared down
into Nellie Adamâs 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.