Poem For The Future

the air pollution inspector will knock on the door
as she grabs my cock with her
dead hand.   I will be there like a jacana
with legs chopped off and she will smile all through
like a policeman handcuffing a drunk.
I will love a dead woman, a perfectly dead
woman, 7 drinks ahead of her, my bow tie on floor,
a cuckoo clock on the wall, nothing else to do but
lock into peachseed eyes as my assassin’s fingers
want my liar’s throat.

I will make a red fish out of newspapers, a warrant for
assault and stains from rifles, and she will say, o,
I just love, Vivaldi!

I will listen to her turbine wax heart in
saliva passion.

such tricks!    such ruptures of boredom!

–your panties; my soul: a bit of shit on
each.

later, light coming up, gasoline signs of creeping people,
everything aimless and stirring, I’ll be driving South
with a mouth full of sunsets, guillotines, burnt moths
speeches by Hoover and London and Willkie, death, you’ll be
going to the toilet, a full bowel movement, staring at pink
walls, thinking, o my god, Charles Bukowski stuck it in me!

and at the traffic light I will stop and I’ll think, well,
I suppose she’ll mail me more of those haikus
and I’ll have to try to find something in
them.

the light will turn green and I will
think:   I hate
haikus.

Author
Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: