Written by
Charles Bukowski |
death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God's anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime
|
Written by
Robert William Service |
A hundred people I employed,
But when they struck for higher pay,
I was so damnably annoyed
I told them they could stay away.
I simply shut my business down;
I closed my doors and locked them out,
And now you'll find all round the town
A lot of idle men about.
Of course I know it is my loss,
And I their point of view can see,
But I must show them I'm the boss,
And any raise must come from ME.
But when they claim it as a right,
And send their Union leaders round,
Why then, by God, I'm out to fight,
Or burn my workshop to the ground.
I've risen from the ranks myself;
By brawn and brain I've made my way.
Had I bet, beered and blown my pelf,
I would have been as poor as they.
Had I wed young to thrift's unheed,
I might have been a toiler now,
With rent to pay and kids to feed,
And bloody sweat upon my brow.
Ah there's the point! "I might have been.
"
I might have been as peeved as they,
And know what misery can mean,
And ask like them a raise of pay.
I see myself.
.
.
.
"The telephone!"
.
.
.
Had I not been so bloody wise -
(A poor old rich man all alone) .
.
.
"Hullo! Strike's off.
I grant the rise.
"
|
Written by
Robert William Service |
Heaven's mighty sweet, I guess;
Ain't no rush to git there:
Been a sinner, more or less;
Maybe wouldn't fit there.
Wicked still, bound to confess;
Might jest pine a bit there.
Heaven's swell, the preachers say:
Got so used to earth here;
Had such good times all the way,
Frolic, fun and mirth here;
Eighty Springs ago to-day,
Since I had my birth here.
Quite a spell of happy years.
Wish I could begin it;
Cloud and sunshine, laughter, tears,
Livin' every minute.
Women, too, the pretty dears;
Plenty of 'em in it.
Heaven! that's another tale.
Mightn't let me chew there.
Gotta have me pot of ale;
Would I like the brew there?
Maybe I'd get slack and stale -
No more chores to do there.
Here I weed the garden plot,
Scare the crows from pillage;
Simmer in the sun a lot,
Talk about the tillage.
Yarn of battles I have fought,
Greybeard of the village.
Heaven's mighty fine, I know .
.
.
.
Still, it ain't so bad here.
See them maples all aglow;
Starlings seem so glad here:
I'll be mighty peeved to go,
Scrumptious times I've had here.
Lord, I know You'll understand.
With Your Light You'll lead me.
Though I'm not the pious brand,
I'm here when You need me.
Gosh! I know that HEAVEN'S GRAND,
But dang it! God, don't speed me.
|
Written by
Robert William Service |
Bill has left his house of clay,
Slammed the door and gone away:
How he laughed but yesterday!
I had two new jokes to tell,
Salty, but he loved them well:
Now I see his empty shell.
Poker-faced he looks at me;
Peeved to miss them jokes - how h
Would have belly-laughed with glee!
He gives me the pip, I swear;
Seems just like he isn't there:
Flown the coop - I wonder where?
Bill had no belief in "soul";
Thought the body was the whole,
And the grave the final goal.
Didn't reckon when we pass,
This old carcass maybe has
Spirit that sneaks out like gas.
"Look here, Bill, I'm asking you
What's the Answer? Tell me true:
Is death the end of all we do?
"Hand me out the dope - are we
No more than monkeys on a tree?"
.
.
.
And then I swear to God I see
bill bat an eye and - wink at me.
|