Bukowski

A damned old drunk, obscene, vulgar. Dilapidated old man, I curse you. I curse you for showing me there is another way. Another way to face the mountain of life. I curse you because even with the shield of time, with the distance of memory and in the middle of the fog of time You found me, you found me when I least expected and needed you the most. In a country that was neither yours nor mine, in a bookstore that wasn’t I searched, you found me. I curse you Because we both know you’d want that.

Entangled in life, locked in the sickening whiteness of a flying condom, I remember you. See you at the false kindness of wage slaves.

I read you in the disgusting space of the metal grave. Expressionless faces, lights that show the shifts, the tiresome flickering of the superfluous midnight. The hours fade and the closer the end, the further the beginning remains. In those moments I feel the closest to you, they are the most indescribable moments, a prisoner of the repeating disorder, I read you and it makes me break ties and run, run, run and go behind only dust, vomit and nothing else.

Because cynicism stops joy, monotony inevitably extinguishes the colors of the panorama. Repetition kills the day, chokes the night and blinds the divine.

God, said a thousand times, ceases to be God and becomes just another concept. Day after day, over and over again, cycle in, cycle out. The same scene is presented before the same eyes, like the minister of a decaying kingdom. But the pressure does not last, it increases over time and it leaves you with only two ways out, either you explode or you adapt. You chose the third, you turned everything around. You took the status quo by the legs and gave in after a beating go back to the boring reality you found yourself in.

You bastard did it. You decided to get it and you got it. You progressed with crumbs, writing was your escape from the reality you found yourself in, writing another need. you got away with no it doesn’t need any paraphernalia or pomp. It was of little use to you extensive vocabulary or refined gestures intoxicated with silver for you have realized that this is nothing more than an empty image, a key to the rich and the poor, a password to those who, from their high domes, watch the social opera unleash itself for its entertainment. You knew that what was captured on paper, what both professors and professors repeat to the grave, is nothing of yours, not a part of you, not a piece of your soul or your destiny to please the aristocrats. You wrote for the one who reads you, and you’re screwing everyone else. You dedicated your texts vagabonds, nomads, real bohemians. It was the only thing you could do because you knewage aware that you are no more than what you drank and no less than what you belched.

I envy you, and I think that’s why I hate you, because you didn’t allow it They will cling to the slimy tentacles of absurd norms and stupid rules. I knew that this text, this work, this child that is pregnant before you is yours. You were the ruler of your life, you were the director of your future, why not be the director of your creations?

Now drink slowly, dammit. get sick soothe a cold drink down a scratchy throat that I will toast you, even if the wind blowsagainst the dark horizonI’ll make a toast to you.