Love Bound At The Wrist And Hung Like A Salomey

he said
pouring a drink
his nose as red as white bass gaffed
and running down the middle of his face,
ya know, if ya don’t take it easy
you can get to hate the gold buildings
crawling with ant-like Jews,
or the Negro dancing on the stage;
it’s a political thing to shove the Negro
in front now; this fills in gaps
untended before, and on this score
pretends to make things o.k.;
but look, here we have France in
parenthesis, Germany in minor noun,
bolsheviks turning screws in glad
factories, anarchists writing fashion
columns for syndicates, and, as always,
madmen dreaming of burning their fingers
in soup; everything’s fine:
burgundy as paint, lepers running for
congress, Lady McBeth with a carrot…
it is the Day of the Tiger
but the men are too small to eat.

we drank.

small seeds without water, I said.

feet barricaded to flame, he said.

love bound at the wrist and hung
like a salomey, I said.

we are born to one clock, he said.

we are born with one cock, I said.

we don’t need knowledge, he said,
we need reason.

men that beat walls, I said, know
more than genius knows but these men
are not clever enough to be intactly
silly.

why don’t you shut up    he asked, and
I did, and he poured a drink
and I smiled.

Author
Charles Bukowski