one for the Jag

shake it down through and if you don’t
die the first time you cross the fire,
fuck it, you can probably make it
headlights dimmed next shot out, and
I can’t complain, we’ve got free tickets
to the STONES tomorrow night, I gotta
review them for CREEM, I’m big time,
you see, like William Faulkner waxed-
up and set up on your left front fender
next time you eat at the SIZZLER.
over half a century old and going to
with these speed-freaks and trans-
vestites and hootchy-kootchies sniffing
Jagger body-belts waving across the next-
to-last number, electronics and purple pink
lights and tiny titties sweating global
dreams of easy bright victory, the mikes
suffering and ringing hydrogen bomb cling-
ing hard-ons, bah, it’s obvious to an old
goat like me, O, I got away from my mother
35 years ago and every time the STONES
come to town I seem to be in a position to
get a free ticket.   last time I was sleeping
with a lady executive from CAPITAL and she
blew it all on me:   life, chance, hope, and
then got her ass kicked by a washed-up
Mexican bullfighter off the coast of Baja
after I dumped her.   all my women go a
bad way and I keep on writing about them
and getting older and fatter and more
famous.   I like the STONES like to get a
quick hard drink and then get out.   their
appella does from eleven years old to
then dies a limp bad-dick cunt dream,
and yet there they have me sitting in a
seat again, watching them, me a lover of
Mahler and 14 year old girls pissing down
through purple toilet seats, they must have
the power to make me arrive, sit down, take
it, rave, and like the rest of them eat a
white hamburger, drag a joint full of seeds
and stems in the parking lot, youth all around
rotting, never ever to live most of them,
putting Mick just above Christ and halfway
between the knees of the Buddha.
it’s all right.   the cops have faces
like everybody’s mother and we’ll
all be mothers soon enough.
o.k., Mick.

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