hanging there on the wall (a poem by Charles Bukowski, from his book what matters most is how well you walk through the fire)

I used to look across the room
and think,
this female will surely do me
and it’s not worth

but I’d do nothing about it
and I wasn’t
it was more like a space to
fill in with something;
like on a canvas,
you can keep painting something on it
even if it isn’t very

“what are you thinking
about, you bastard?” she would


“painting? you nuts?
pour me a drink!”

and I would, and then I’d brush her
in, drink in hand, sitting
in a chair, legs crossed, kicking
her high-heeled shoes.
I’d brush her in, bad tempered,
spoiled, loud.

a painting nobody would ever
except me.


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