Monday, 31 October 2011

Mmm… Monday: Charles Bukowski, Part the First

Last week was absolute murder. I was putting in overtime at work, which meant I came home later than usual, more tired than usual and pretty much just had enough energy to eat and go to bed. I tried reading Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev, but kept falling asleep a few paragraphs in, so I just gave up reading all together. The weekend was busy as well, and it really feels wrong not reading – like I’m stuck in this boring world which consists of me working, eating and sleeping on repeat.

I’m supposed to go see Pina in about an hour (if I’m able to leave the office, that is), and so there’s probably no one to better fit my frame of mind right now than Charles Bukowski.

And I base that on absolutely nothing.


Are You Drinking?

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
excersise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
i tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I wam
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.


It’s taken me about two hours to squeeze in reading this poem and now I’m posting it, silently repeating the lines

I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.

And I can't put into words how much I love those last two sentenses of the poem. They pretty much sum up everything that I am right now.

Except I don't have a cat. 

Ah well, less than two weeks till my long weekend break to Berlin. Time can’t move fast enough.

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