killed by a bad poem…

there was a little old man who lived by the sea, he
wrote so many poems
he didn’t know what to do
and most of his poems were about
writing poems,
like he’d write,
“I haven’t written a poem since
Tuesday,
Wednesday will be my good news
day…”
or he’d write,
“a poem just walked in from the
bathroom and told me we were out
of toilet
paper.”
he was best when he got a little
funny about his
poems
but really he was very serious
about them.

at times he lived with women
but never for long
because when he stopped writing
poems about writing
poems
he blamed the women for the
stoppage
and ran them off in the vilest of
manners.
but he liked to screw and he liked
to have somebody dust off his
piano
and serve him corn, hamburgers and
french fries
in bed
so soon there were more women
to replace the other women
and since he was going to inherit
a large sum of money
when his little old parents
died
the women kept arriving
only to be run off again
when he couldn’t write poems about
writing poems.

now, I liked his poems
even though the subject matter was
limited
it was easy to read
honest
and sometimes funny.
I always figured some woman might
do him in because sometimes he became
very abusive toward them
in order to get rid of them so
they would stop blocking his desire to
write poems about writing poems
but it didn’t happen that
way.
what happened is that
the same poem that had complained about
no toilet paper in the
bathroom, well, this poem
walked in one day and
stood behind this poet
with this luger
and blew his brains out between
his ears
then carried his typewriter
down to the sea
and threw it into the
high tide
and there went the
inheritance money,
and when all the ladies he had
lived with
heard about it
they cried and sighed a
little
but not for him
or his work, then
they went about their
business,
and this poem
about a poem
who wrote poems about writing
poems
is about all that’s left
of the whole
matter.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1983
Source
Original manuscript