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?
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?
the moon disappeared from the sky
ResponderEliminarthe 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