Bukowski on Miramba
Bukowski on Miramba
Every time you ask
“What are you writing now?’
I reply with the same words
A poem
“A story?’
No, it's a poem.
‘Not a story then?’
No not a story
Although it is kind of a story
‘So a story.’
No, a poem.
‘I don’t like poetry’
Okay
This is not a poem.
‘What is it then?’
It is the bitter taste
Of last night
Rolling in sawdust
Nursing a Vindaloo
With the lights
Out
The unholy mess
On your vest
After a nosebleed
The harsh sound of wheezing
From too many cigarettes
The cough as you light up again
The stifled oath
As Devil breath
Withers your skin
The way the face of the moon
Can look upside down
When the world turns turtle
As fruit bats,
Battering a way through gum trees
To escape the unexpected
Come at you,
Mob-handed.
An elephant in hotpants
Dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy
On ice
A flat fish floundering
In the rain
After the flood
When steam rises from the pavement
And strangers dance
The hot potato
Until it becomes a monster mash
‘But that’s a poem.’
It’s not.
‘It is.’
Did you like it then?
‘Maybe yes and maybe no
It made no sense.’
Precisely.