thoughts from a stone bench in Venice

I sit on these benches and look out
at the sea, and the freaks and the

I need new eyes new months new
pillows new cunts new bathroom
floor mats.

every old stud with half an eye in
his head loves to charm and   ride
a new young calf.

when I think of men mowing their
Saturday lawns and playing football,
baseball, basketball with their sons
I feel like vomiting across all the

the family stinks of Christ
and the American Stock Exchange.
the family stinks of safety and
numbness and Thanksgiving turkeys,
the family stinks of    packed
automobiles driving through
redwood forests.

I need new eyes new cunts new
ankles new sounds new betrayals.

I don’t want a long funeral
procession behind me when I die.
I want to move on without weights.
I want the sullen darkness I want
the tomb like these walls now:
me here without digression–
solid, cranky, immaculate.
I hold me.   that’s what there

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript