chauv poem

I like that classical-symphonic
crowd, they’re so embellished–
the tingling delicate English
accents and the body posture–
seldom slumped, they believe
in the rarefied life–Mozart
suffered for them, all the
composers suffered for them,
and the classical-symphonic
women after arguments with
you will pull away in pink
Porches drunk and lighting
cigarettes and they are
never stopped by the motorboys.
all women roar off in puffs
of indignation but the
symphonic-classical crowd
does it best.

and you think, all right,
baby, let somebody else
get it done for you.   then
you whack it, come, wipe
off, have a cigarette and
a beer, think of them
fondly–that whirl of
hair over the left eye
while you were working.
then you sleep.
but, actually, it’s the
same as a split with a
waitress at Norm’s.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: