look, I say, look at that house!
wouldn’t that be a wonderful place to get
smashed in?
you always think that, she says, you think
everybody is sitting around getting
and look at that place, I say, it has windows
like a church.   I bet they are sitting in there
smashed right now!
it isn’t like that, she says.
I want to buy a place, I say, that I can get
smashed in.   just a little place with the front porch
falling in… 2 hungry German shepherds… paint peeling
from the boards.
get it then, she says, get it.
it’s somewhere, I say, I know it’s somewhere.

we drive on into my court after stopping at the
liquor store.   we have 4 bottles of white German
wine.   we will get smashed.

there’s nothing like getting smashed
especially under the right circumstances.
I mean, while you’re not feeling too

they are always calling the police on
me around here.

I want to get smashed in a place like William Randy
Hearst’s old castle.
I want to go from great room to great room
crashing full bottles against walls,
free within my own doom.

here among the poor there is no understanding
of the need for my sounds and my ways.
they must sleep their nights
to have strength for their factory days
so they are very quick to phone the law
even though it would seem to me
that they need to get smashed more than

and when we get in she says:
well, are we going to have a quiet night?

and I say, I don’t know.
I’m going to get smashed.

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