Pull Me Through The Temples, Pull Me Through The Wine

the sun borns us and burns us down
like a candle, music loves hunch-backs,
the blackbirds whirl outside my windowpane,
grass goes grass, shoeshines shine,
the hammer, the hammer
                                                 the sot whiskey.
coo goes the dove,
the sun burns us like camels walking sand
the smoke curls the harlot’s beard between
her legs,
hands arrange coffin-smile like flowers;
they say a man, si, is young alive so long as
he can stand up
                              in the morning,
O flare flare flare in shade, knit and pause.
I will raft to South America.
I will paint in Spain,
the sunburn the sunburn
the piano pals the piano players play,
the nurses walk in tennis shoes through the trees
and I am watching a fat man, his belt-buckle wobbles
wobbles like a guitar
and the bees crazy with honey can only sting once,
and I light a cigarette and sit in the shade
and wish I could softly cry.
but I can’t,
I can’t
the terrible urgency of sunshine.

Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: