WARNING: A nasty poem about nasty people (except for Buk’s last wife, who suffered much and was great for Buk, just not my type). Filters off. So much edge, the very air lacerates.
More forgiving than Christ
is what I think when I read about
the crazies you shacked up with.
The Great Love of Your Life
was a fat sodden slut, a shrill waste
of skin and I wondered if you’d lost
your mind when you’d wondered
(with an indignation I first took for a joke)
why the children she’d abandoned
for her life of chronic black hole pathology
hadn’t bothered showing for her final days
or even her funeral.
And yet the Critics damn you for a
misogynist! Christ, I could have barely
stood the New Agey Meher Baba devotee
turned Buddhist you ended up marrying, the one who
rubbed smelly useless oils into your tired flesh and
built furniture for you.
|Granted, Bukowski was no walk on the beach himself, |
but a misogynist? No, just a sometimes mean drunk.
Which is enough, but he’s still a better writer than you’ll
never be, which, let's face it, is why you’re really mad.
She at least took care of her investment, though, and now reaps its rewards while the critics fall back on the old lie that if people buy and read and like your work you can’t possibly have anything to say worth pondering.
And then there was the pretentious old hippie who bore your child
and then went away so she could
collect your support checks without giving you the love she claimed the rest of the world was due through her hideous “art” and damnable cliques of lazy, untalented nothings, barely fit for medical experiments.
You forgave her out loud in a poem she
never earned, though she (no doubt) still curses you for never really understanding,
which really means not sending
what she felt was her due, that is,
every dime you ever made.
As for the silly sculptress who broke into your
house to break your typewriter, all because you
told her of your women after she’d cried to you
about how she didn’t know whose baby it was
after fucking innumerable guys—Jesus!
She now regales interviewers with tales of Her Great
Love Affair (sleeping with you is all she was ever
good for in a too-long life) though she should
count herself grateful it wasn’t me, because I’d
have caught her, wrapped her skanky carcass
in duct tape, and crushed every last cell of her body
with a hammer from the toes on up for violating
my space, let alone wrecking the tools of my trade
and stealing the sweat of my soul.
And then there was the stripper. And the pill
freak, who burst in to raid your refrigerator
before demanding money and leaving to do
God knows what, just not with you. And all the
others who stole your poems, your paintings,
your money: to call them whores is an insult
to honest businesswomen.
Four years without a female touch (as you
stated at the beginning of Women) made
you all too tolerant of users and abusers and
other malfunctioning life-support systems for
vaginas, and they dismiss you for a womanizer?
I swear I wonder if
these assholes and I are even reading
the same books.