Charles Bukowski

A poem from The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills, Black Sparrow Press, 1969:

O ants crawl my drunken arms
and they let Van Gogh sit in a cornfield
and take Life out of the world with a
shotgun,
ants crawl my drunken arms
and they set Rimbaud
to running guns and looking under rocks
for gold.
O ants crawl my drunken arms,
they put Pound in a nuthouse
and made Crane jump into the sea
in his pajamas,
ants, ants crawl my drunken arms
as our schoolboys scream for Willie Mays
instead of Bach,
ants crawl my drunken arms
through the drink I reach
for surfboards and sinks, for sunflowers
and the typewriter falls like a heart-attack
from the table
or a dead Sunday bull,
and the ants crawl into my mouth
and down my throat,
I wash them down with wine
and pull up the shades
and they are on the screen
and on the streets
climbing church towers
and into tire casings
looking for something else
to eat.

About trueoutsider

I'm an artist.
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