laugh a minute

here it comes, the bottle-headed beetle
to kiss you off, to nudge your gonads, to disinfect
your hope, to grind you into something shaped for
trash.
see it there?    approaching?   along the slimy left
wall?
where you painted in green acrylic:
I AM JUST HERE TO CLEAN MY FINGERNAILS.
the bottle-headed beetle moving toward you
without fanfare
and you can’t stop it
they can’t stop it
we can’t stop it,
that thing
moving like a train on schedule,
it’s weird, truly,
traveling the centuries,
it’s coming now, see it?
no, you don’t.
I don’t.
awful   thing.
bottle-headed beetle.
beetle with a bottle head.
I can’t see it.
but I’m the first to describe
it.
it’s raining tonight,
11:43 p.m.
and I feel it moving toward
me.
I light a cigarette.
scratch my neck.
I pick up a paperclip, put it
down.
what a fucking fix.
I should be on an airliner heading
full speed toward
Peru.
but don’t ever say that I didn’t give
you the picture.
you fool.
you ghoul.
you nothing.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1991
Source
Original manuscript