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photographs


they photograph you on your porch
and on your couch
and standing in the courtyard
or leaning against your car

these photographers
women with big asses
which look better to you
than do their eyes or their souls

-this playing at author
it´s real Hemingway
James Joyce
stageshit

but look-
there are the books
you´ve written them
you haven´t been to Paris
but you´ve written all those books
there behind you
(and others not there,
lost or stolen)

all you´ve got to do
is look like Bukowski
for the cameras
but

you keep watching
those
astonishingly big asses
and thinking-
somebody else is getting
it

“look into my eyes,”
they say and click their cameras
and flash their cameras
and fondle their cameras

Hemingway used to box or go
fishing or to the bullfights
but after they leave
you jerk-off into the sheets
and take a hot bath

they never send the photos
like they promise to send the photos
and astonishingly big asses are
gone forever
and you´ve been a fine literary fellow-
now alive
dead soon enough
looking into and at their eyes and souls
and more.


(Bukowski, photographs, in: love is a dog from hell)






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