![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Most people get music stuck in their head. Sometimes, I get poetry stuck there. (Other people's poetry, that is. When it comes to my poetry, I usually just get fluttering fragments that dissolve while I'm still trying to find the butterfly net. But other people's poetry tends to hang around.) This poem has been running round my head all morning (co-existing quite happily with the music in my headphones) so I feel the need to share it. Besides, I haven't had time to write anything today.
down by the wings
they speak of angels or she
speaks of angels
from a plateglass window overlooking the
Sunset Strip
(she has these visions)
(I don't have these visions)
but maybe angels prefer people with
money
daughters of rich farmers who are dying of
throat cancer in Brazil.
myself---I keep seeing these
wingless creatures of mean story and dismal
intent
and she says
when I defame her
dream:
you are trying to
pull me down
by the wings.
she's going to Europe in the summer---
Greece, Italy, most probably
Paris and she's
taking some of her angels with
her.
not all
but some.
now there's this half-Chinese boy who used to
sleep on fire escapes
the Negro homosexual who plays chess and
recited Shelley at the Sensualist
then there's the one who has real talent with the
brush (Nickey) but who simply can't get
started
somehow and
there's also Sieberling who cries because he
loves his mother (actually).
many of these
angels
will leave town and
flow around the
Arch of Triumph
to be photographed or
to chase beetles at
9 rue Git-le-Coeur, and
it's going to be a hot and
lonesome summer
for many of us when
the devil walks in and retakes Hollywood
once more.
Charles Bukowski
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
down by the wings
they speak of angels or she
speaks of angels
from a plateglass window overlooking the
Sunset Strip
(she has these visions)
(I don't have these visions)
but maybe angels prefer people with
money
daughters of rich farmers who are dying of
throat cancer in Brazil.
myself---I keep seeing these
wingless creatures of mean story and dismal
intent
and she says
when I defame her
dream:
you are trying to
pull me down
by the wings.
she's going to Europe in the summer---
Greece, Italy, most probably
Paris and she's
taking some of her angels with
her.
not all
but some.
now there's this half-Chinese boy who used to
sleep on fire escapes
the Negro homosexual who plays chess and
recited Shelley at the Sensualist
then there's the one who has real talent with the
brush (Nickey) but who simply can't get
started
somehow and
there's also Sieberling who cries because he
loves his mother (actually).
many of these
angels
will leave town and
flow around the
Arch of Triumph
to be photographed or
to chase beetles at
9 rue Git-le-Coeur, and
it's going to be a hot and
lonesome summer
for many of us when
the devil walks in and retakes Hollywood
once more.
Charles Bukowski
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject