beaujolais jadot

the dogs of Belgium feel bad too
on certain winter afternoons and
nights as
the sweep of things goes
this way or that.
nothing, nobody is ever spared
and I sometimes read about
famous Hollywood actors and
actresses having quarrels in
public places.
of course, they are only fools
overembelished into a seeming
greatness through
their imaginations and the
adulation of their unimaginative
no matter, bad occurences
continually remind us of our
great airliners crash into
drunken old ladies set themselves
on fire
smoking lonely cigarettes in
one A.M. rooming houses.
animals trainers have bits of
themselves ripped off and eaten
before their eyes.
small wars continue, and rapes,
murders, tortures.
and the dogs of Belgium feel bad
too on
certain winter afternoons and
nights, their eyes show it, they
twitch and shiver–
there’s no place to go, there’s
never a place to go, it’s fixed
that way.
say, sitting like this
typing about it and failing, with
these wine spots on the paper, wine
spilled across this desk, it
dries slowly, and all I can think
of and about are
the dogs of Belgium, they must be
and Christ, they must be feeling
awful bad to get inside my head
like this,
or maybe it doesn’t mean anything
at all, that would be
better as
across the wall from this room
is another room
and I am drunk and
soon I will go in there and
the bed will be there
and I will throw myself upon it
with a gutful
and Picasso will have been
all these years;
Gore Vidal running for
and losing that,
anyhow, I will be into
drunken escape
the dogs of Belgium,
myself, like that,
one, in that wasted
moments of

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript