a pleasant afternoon in bed – Charles Bukowski

“red summers and black satin

charcoal and blood

ringing in the sheets

while snails are stepped on

and moths go batty

trying to put on the eyes

of lightbulbs in

artificial cities;

I light her a cigarette

and she blows up a plasma

of relaxation

to prove we’ve both been

good lovers —

white on black, and in black;

and her toes strike dark

intersections

in my beefy sheets

she says, that elevator boy . . .

y’know him?

I say yes.

a bastard . . . beats his wife.

I put my hand

flat to the surface

where the curve goes down.

damn for an OLD man,

you sure likes to play!

I reach over and pick up

the bottle, suck it down

flat on my back,

the suds like soap

gagging me with gulp-dull

sounds, and she’s listening,

eyes rolling

like newsreel cameras,

and suddenly I have got to laugh,

I spiral out a whale-stream

of foam and liquid

majestic against the wallpaper

not knowing why,

and she laughs

looking down at my flat madness,

she laughs

holding her cigarette

high in the air

with one arm

smoke sifting off

ignored

and we are in bed together

laughing

and we don’t care

about anything

and it is very

very funny.”

 

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