vulgarity

o.k., here I am wiping my ass and thinking about what’s wrong with the
world
but I guess a lot of what bothers me is that I consider
every woman I have lived with as insane:   I knew that to begin with
because they would never have tried to lived with me
otherwise,
for instance, Linda recently sent one of my books to her mother
and her mother got on the phone with her and said,
“why doesn’t he grow up?   why does he keep writing about those
things!:   vomit and sex and crap and all those
UGLY things?”
and poor Linda tried to defend my works,
she’s a sweet dear girl,
and they screamed at each other,
long distance.
my father used to scream the same things at me about my
writing
but so help me
when I write I have no idea I am writing about
shit and vomit and fucking and so forth.
I don’t know,
I thought I was writing about
circumstance,
a circumstance which we allow to destroy us
and we become
apparitions, and everything about us
also, even our pets
our streets
our houses
our love-making.
so now I’m wiping my ass
and now I’m wiping
yours.
you can’t nuke what has already been
nuked, yeah.
still, I think I’m going    to start
lifting the weights
again,
I’m 63 but I feel younger than
Springtime
Am I,
but I’m sincere when I say that
when I hear people say that I wrote
about vulgar things
I think they might be right
but I’m not sure.
I wish Linda’s mother could have met
my father,
they could have gotten together and
never crapped, puked, cursed or
fucked,
they would have been totally sane
totally
justified.
shit,
yeah.

and since this is no place to
end a poem
let me say
that for my sake and
yours
lets be glad
anyhow
for
shit
piss
puke
fuck
shit shit shit shit shit
and that the readers
buy the books
not the critics
who get them
free
up the
ass
ass ass ass ass ass
ass.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1984
Source
Original manuscript