a poem that doesn’t work but one that I still keep playing with like a cat with a toy mouse that won’t become alive–

I suppose it’s caused by the factories, the bad booze, the
women worse, one keeps struggling against the wisdom of
defeat like a withered kakapo gone daft, I am drunk,
listening to organ music on the radio on an October night
turned to summer, too much summer, too much everything like
say the unhappy complaining voice bitching against some
triviality…
more wine is needed! and HERE IT IS!!!: dark red, oh, the
wonder of the grape! as I listen to these heavy-sounding
organs being played in the churches of the world, I am a
hell of an atheist but the music is composed by some who
side with the Devil just for the hell of it, ha ha, now
some of these composers seem to be going awry, dipping
into mad pits of gamble, they are even getting
HUMOROUS, why not?:   they play around, let it run loose…
why not?:
death is always upon our shoulder and it sometimes shakes
us a bit–we need these crazy keys and tonalities and the
WINE!
ah, these fellows are a laugh a minute!–especially those
Westminster Abbey boys!

to think, I spent decades upon the barstool with those
dour, seedy ladies and gentlemen when
all this
has been here!–touchy, truculent, a soothing balm to the
god damned would of living.

yes, more WINE!–I sit here in my white body
gulping down the dark red, blood into blood, the centuries
of now
while the organ music runs the walls and me, pleased
against all odds, I accept: tilt the bottle into the
night.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1986
Source
Original manuscript