24.5.11

BLUE BIRDS

Tom Dixon's Bird Chaise Longue
Harry Bertoia's Bird Chair        

































BLUEBIRD - CHARLES BUKOWSKI


there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

1 comentário:

  1. the moon disappeared from the sky


    the afternoon
    vanishes in shreds
    and writing is a way
    no wonder this boredom

    nodes of dreams
    are the chances
    night

    sunset
    between the cosmos
    and the celestial body:

    - it is dusk or leisure -

    is all I feel
    right now
    no muscle
    moves me

    much more to starve
    the soul
    said sipping

    where (re)born the dawn
    this face
    that makes truce

    to be rotten
    they do not surrender
    or nothing

    like a fish out of water
    bone meal is mauro

    and a thick lens
    this gear
    gangrene and blurred

    As the afternoon (ex)tense
    burning in cadence
    idling

    see: this dust in the streets
    shatter
    stones

    where the rocks
    to serve as a sea
    tears

    the same sea
    that unnerves
    there where the waves wave
    and met

    are vague and the waves
    to flog the time
    stale, old as the wind
    dreams

    ah! dreams!
    pass: foam and mist

    break in the sand bald
    already tired

    the back-and-forth of the come-and-go
    waters this afternoon
    unfinished

    be darkness over the clovers
    three leaves in the garden
    there home

    no four-leaf
    because as always
    I'm out of luck

    ( the birds are mites )

    no agreement on this
    and everything is clear and acid
    and is within reach:

    including death
    radiant

    mercilessly
    ourselves
    as a ghost

    among cancers
    branches of the poplars

    suddenly, a look at the door
    reveals the extent
    stars

    - and are more than stones -

    as the white marble
    that frames the face
    this afternoon is left
    so serene yet
    falling

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