this idiot’s wounded flower dangles
peacefully along my drunken brow;
boy, what a war–
just like the other ones;
but each one gets more and more
the same
as I sit here with these
wine bottles and these words
sifting out the impossibility
of reoccurrence….
this denouement, baby, wait,
I don’t understand–
you told me that you were different
than the others;
how different?
you mean you don’t piss behind
boulevard signboards?
I’ve been watering the green
plants above the doorway.
I’m left with the cats, three of
them, six eyes looking, they are
walking bellies, I feed them,
drink, type about this same war,
there can be nothing great said
here, even decent, even
understandable, I’m just pulling
another cork with this portable
yellow corkscrew, and that’s where
I got the title.

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