Beerspit Night and Cursing

by Charles Bukowski

  And now Webb is asking for photos and the old gal and I got out in the hot sun, but the blinker thing was on for flash photos, it’s an old 4 dollar camera that is supposed to do both, and I hate my face, a lot of scars and now-appearing (it seems) a happy flabbiness, and I took some of her not for Webb and they all came out blank but we didn’t know and got drunk and felt good that it was over,

  but it isn’t over and I don’t know what to do.

  tomorrow I might well try it over

  but why must a man have photos? unless he is running a photo mag.

  I think the only way out for me is to indulge in trigamy…

  Jory, yes. I cannot quite discard Jory. He is better in letter and poem than in person. When I see him actually

  he is so much like the young eager salesman

  ready to tell the flip joke or pinch the gal next to him in the ass when she bends over to retrieve whatever they retrieve to show their ass.

  and then fill a poem full of stars and the crippled gazelle of living. I’d like to sit him in a room with Jeffers for 8 or 10 hours; they’d probably both come out babbling.

  meanwhile,

  Buk

  Buk

  Los Angeles, Calif.

  April 17th., 1961

  Deah Shed:

  Worried about your mind-state.

  You coming through, gal? Or are you going to die among the flowers or Chinese chipsewie? Maybe Pound kicked you out of nest, does not mean to die with your elbows dangling.

  u still got Buk. all right, so meebee nobody knows me but I know me and I am subjective-objective enough to know I am not a bowl of soup or Popeye the Sailor Man. I know it’s the favorite sport

  of a lot of yours to play genius;

  I play mye eye self and I got to firuelious or something

  figure a lot of tags have been wrong.

  not that I give a damn. Each man (or woman) must live out of the INSIDE OF HIS GUTS AND FOUR WALLS.

  Heard from kaja—she seems a little mixed.

  but what the hell? do you mean to tell me that through the sanity insanity of these ariel words that iiii can change anything?

  Pound may not like this attitude but Pound got his ass caught in the meat-grinder and Pound never heard of Buk, and now Pound has to cuff off his political favors as being on the right but losing side or whatever the chippy said when she spilled her drink and wanted another one before going up to my room.

  Pound can go to hell.

  all right. so u do not like it. nor do I like grey idols. it’s time to move on.

  …space, it seems, can almost transcend death. Another toy to make us important enough to live

  without the

  overwrought falsity of poetry.

  Ernie cannot write! I told you that. Ernie wants to seem or sound like a writer. Ernie is not insane. Ernie has never seen 17 baby pigs running running through something a hole in the fence and laughing laughing the dog and I the pigs the pigs and then going back to the factory not the dog but I, and Ernie prob takes his books with his brains and lets them KNOW nobody knows me

  they think I am just a tough blank-faced old man

  and they think

  correctly goddess

  the masses are not always wrong, but it is good sometimes to be tough and hard, it allows me to go on thinking and breathing, and maybe wot wot wot who knows what we try. ????

  …drunker than the searchlight

  feeble feeler

  when the rays are subtractions.

  all things that hold us together

  will finally fall apart,

  but neither of us will [handwritten:] (etherial abstraction of

  something I do not quite understand—)

  be right or wrong

  Winter comes but once a year but you can get drunk on any old good night.

  drunkeness is a form of suicide that allows thou to expell all the shit in the belly or thy mind and come back like a Lazarus full of piss and pennies.

  I am the soldier in the mirror. I can see Carthage and Nap and Hit. I smoke and smile and drink.—I have lived in East St. Louis and I have lived in Hell.

  the hellyjelly law pounded my cookoodoor the other night old woman’s laughter broken bottlewebs

  I wouldn’t let them in to sin.

  things must rot. that is part of the PLAN. GOD DAMN THE PLAN. i do NOT ACCEPPT ACCEPT ACCEPT ACEPPT

  nature or whatever it is

  when something down near my navel says this is evil;

  I am not a cur or a crusador and I’m glad they never found the grail, they wd have only pissed in it, but I piss in myself and know I am nothing, and this is the most important beginning of all—all your genius-playing, fame-urgency tribe committed.

  my youth has taken a walk but my mind has not. Or, so it says. to me. we must never be sure. even when we are…

  which was pound’s mistake, of course; being sure and then sure again and then MORE SURER than ever. Admirable courage of course and DEDICATION but men are born bottled shitted born millions at a time all over the world many of them never to write never to know what a typewriter is or a lit. mag some men bending over rice or what awful slipsloopshit much better poets leaders gutfullredbeasts than Pound only out of it ON A GOD DAMNED SHIT CHANCE OF MATH.

  But your Ez is fat ehohellhow to figure he is the only one. And for this, he is fortunate in his narrowmindedness.

  Did Ez ever explain why he kicked you out of nest? was it me? or didn’t he explain? I am not knocking P. entirely. He has so far the greatest GRAMMATICAL FORCE OF THE WORD

  a man trained to whip the lion

  but a man who could neither laugh nor forgive

  or admit being second to anyone

  even a 49 day old cat on the fire escape wet steps

  after fucking a whore, and everything tired in the arms

  and antiotes of nations forgotten whores forgotten

  as the sun comes down. Pound was human and I must not

  ride him too hard. I am getting almost like E., and I

  do not want to do that.

  Pound? He stands smoking and I would slug him against the bricks except things must rot that is part of the plan.

  there is some enduring world here that should not be; we are toys—recollection and the will to live, and certainly Shake said it.

  and against the girl I loved but one night,—

  the armies of Alaric, the deer across the fender.

  your yellow paged letters blue ones filled with

  wat conjure up 35 thousand gods.

  as for and far as I am concerned: THE MOCKING BIRD DOES

  NOT ATTEMPT SUICIDE.

  how many dead do we want or need

  how many wars how many New Jersey loves

  how many 126976 hands?

  how many feet?

  most men are nothing; they only pretend to god awful be.

  dullness, overlasting dullness and pretense; retch us out of yes

  this here with the drab liquor of singing.

  try to decide what my brain is trying to tell me.

  musing leads to madness.

  I am wise enough to come back and circle myself and bite out a chunk like a wild dog.

  into and beyond terror seriousness will not do. Seriousness and the rag-dillpickle bopeek books are gypsy gone

  we must carve from fresh marble

  they taught us this and that, but then

  wine good wine came down through the staring and unbelieving eye.

  the indistinct smoke of verse is gone, if I have to kill it myself. If you or I were Greco or even a watersnake. well, rub your hands and prove that you are alive. walk the floor. this is the gift. certainly the charm of dying lies in the fact that nothing is lost.

  the hand of silk tangling in and out of melodies runs in and out of vases and death runs eoyow!! down my throat like a mouse; the palm trees hold up the air of the poetry we breathe.

  I don’t know—I meant to go on, becoming hrby w
uckus-wacked by something less than gladiolie blurb or wot

  buxome, I say, is the hore of horse clasp and hoof destroyed or not the rubber nose and mouth and skin

  like the clasp of an ironing board…the final poem will be relaxed like some old castle burning.

  daffodils viking bastards calm as frogs

  x you bitch,

  taking out the oh so comely sprite whore of hours

  I am trying to find a girlfriend for Picasso.

  …your remaining sex is my salvation like

  the eyes of god in grapefruit

  like arrows in the brain of a washed-away nightmare.

  your X should be my X

  and the little walk-away wrongs and worms from coffins must pleasantly wait their play.

  like a coney-Island hot warbling buckets of tar.

  I wd of course prefer to die with the fox in the ferns, or as a photograph of a Spad (World War I) wound bout my throat like a necktie, and all the girls gone and the legs legs legs legs girls kicking real high.

  old poets are quite as bad as old queers; there’s something quite unacceptable in either of them.

  And I don’t see quite how you can go for H.D. unless you go for befriending, and don’t ever to have to do that, Goddess.

  I can always write how the hell hwo ho drunk or wot I kin always write you a letter that can make yoir yes eyeballs crop up in the center of your hands and wonder what’s happening.

  Meanwhile I have all hexes working. Relax.

  Truly,

  Charles—

  Bymxkskli

  19/april/61 pobx 46 s.g. cal

  buk/ like a gypsy raised by gypsy mother & half-breed irish from silver-tongued juice-happy father; lived on a liquid diet he did; roaming the eastern seaboard from age GO—now a week here now there; different names & ages & background; charity but parents sending me with the relief checks to stand in line or for shoes or old eggs etc—whenever got ‘lost’ in new town…soon’s my mother turned her back I’d ‘go for a walk’ & stay hrs & hrs until dark & she’d call cops: “i don’t know HOW she got there but you’ll find my little girl in the closest museum or public library”

  i’d be there filling my soul up with the old dead bones that i somehow knew & gems & old objects…always in the rooms of mummies…from early age…my toys wd be…old bones the dogs left on the city streets…that i’d wrap in torn stained rags & lay in the back yard under the fire escapes…putting stone rooms around them & then go into a trance like state…even at 2 or 3 yrs old…i’d worship my ‘mummies’…

  and always was of a mind so fantastic & filled with knowledge that didn’t know how got there…“you shd give this one to the church” they’d say…those church people who came with baskets of foods…that made my mother cringe & simper…

  the church ugly bitch with her eye-cunts droolin’ on me…trying to get her old come out of her brains by me…handing me the doll…age 2 ish…(I cd read & write & draw at 2) the large $5 doll that creamed my mother’s no-childhood-days-in-family-18-kids & just big little girl drawers…my mother wanted the doll…I played with my bones rags & stones & trances…the backed-up come bitch from the neighborhood church…“what does th’ doll say little girl??” turning over baby doll…“maaaaaa-ma” it went & i hated giving her any sex thrill…said i: “the doll says ‘pa pa’” & it went on for a while but i wdn’t change my story for no doll even tho’ was sorry for poor maw who got herself laid by a gay irish lad & had to marry him…costing him his rich family…been excommunicated from holy roman cat’lick church 2-ice & paid way back in…1st time…last time raised hell & was OUT for long while…sorry i had to be cause of her UNdoing…gentle fearful beautiful gypsy mother…one of 18 kids…ignorant as a worm…beautiful as a pagan…church cunt finally let me have doll with big show of dismissing moronic kid & i went out & drop’d doll in rain water & returned to my bones rags & stones…fuck church bitch…ought not to masturbate on the joy of small kids…but I was wary…& ancient…now that i see my teeth going i rejoice…somewhere buried in a secret spot in that mummy that my spirit keeps coming out of…again & again & again…and each time a tooth falls from its long dead head…my earth form loses a grip on its teeth life & I sing in joy because i know…as soon as it turns into dust…my spirit will be liberated…her wisdom & compassion keeps her tied to earth…coming thru that lovely set dead dried skin hair & bones wrap’d in rags in a deep cave…

  my hair is falling out & i weep for joy…my ancient mummy decays…soon the bones will be under attack…the skin is long since splotched…the hair loosening & the teeth gone…this reincarnation my teeth went bad from birth…the mummy’s going…& i will be free then…i am beautiful as a vampire…& ancient as death…no one knows my age…i am cunning as an old ghetto jew…& deep with wisdom & tired as life itself but filled with love for us all…daily i wait for that old set of bones to leave…surely they cannot hold out beyond this life…i can already feel my own bones going…

  at early age…cut out words ISIS from some yiddish kotex advert. or whiskey ad…cut it out secretly & pin’d over bed…age 5 or 6 or 7…& the thrill that took me at these 4 words shook me from any modern religion back to that of the dust bag where I return & come & go…it was sheri at st. liz that got the heiroglyphics into the cantos that my language never die…never die…never die…

  how d.p.’s son Omar Pound hated me…he sneered: “I guess you got a dog tag around yr neck to call dogs with” because I sd to maestro: “it is my 2 ivory oriental bracelets that called the oriental visitor…” & sure enough i had my medal of the lady & i touched it saying: “yes i do…i have a medal which calls my lady…eeeezzzzessss” & omar had spent time in persia & egypt & knew i wuz a hick & his eyes shot out because thanks to my lady…the pronunciation of her name was perfect he knew it & he was scared for mocking me—i had a beautiful scarab that a german boy gave me but father jordon took it when i sought refuge with the stancioff family & he came visiting & i served him their whiskey…& took a bit myself & called him a cocksuckin’ motherfucker…he came at me & put his hands around my back & undid my rope removing the scarab…that I wore not to lose it & gave me the miraculous medal…& said “wear that…for protection” & he kept my scarab…& he wont return it…the catholic witchwarlock

  but it changed my life…the Lady is now in clothes from head to foot…but I am here to rip them from her & let my lady breathe again…that we all breathe…I am not a goddess but a high priestess of my Lady of the Skye—the Lady of the African Blue that I painted & paint…Ezra is the SCORPION H.D. is the SNAKE & S.M. is the HAWK…E.P. born under sign scorpio H.D. has a signet sign of the snake & the thistle & s.m. has the lines in the (her) cantos: “bright hawk whom no hood shall chain”

  3 signs of life they are; the scorpion is the dragon sign; the snake is from crete & the hawk is from egypt/ on p. 67 yr H.D. SELECTED POEMS GROVE PRESS: POEM: Fair the Thread: H.D. wrote:

  “the scorpion, snake and hawk

  are gold-patterned

  as on a king’s pall”

  and she my goddess H.D. did not know what I know…who is the scorpion, & the snake & the hawk; i was the last to come…

  i come out of egypt & return there—time beats at my door & i return—like a sound from the old drum of dried bones secure in a place where the feet of many men beat the earth & i know how to judge the time by their beats over my stone room…many cities have gone up & fallen down over top of my head & i come out of gypsy mothers & gay lost fathers; it is safest in such places…nothing has ever touched me nor changed one atom of my pattern…it is always the same…truth is love; truth is death; truth is life; rebirth; truth is our food; our light; our destiny, fate, colour, shape, form & design/

  on p. 66 same book/ read: “If you take the moon in your hands

  and turn it round

  (heavy, slightly tarnished platter)

  you’re there;”

  consider how this remote eternal spirit—gave slang talk to the nubi
ans…her time’s kids: “man…yew there…”—read Georgius Sanctus out ringing loud like african drum tribal ceremonies—every word is a drum…drum…drum…dig the word endings in Hymn p. 69 “jar myrrh stored secure” H.D. never ‘studied poetry’ she IS poetry her ear is fine as silk

  and as strong; read The Walls Do Not Fall my god…you need me to read it to you & thrill yr earballs kid/ 9/45 a.m. star in mid east egypt israel a flame

  1/ Ezra Pound c/o Rachewiltz / Schloss Brunnenberg / Tirolo / Mereno / Italia /

  2/ Reverend H. Swabey…no I will send out / send them to me//

  I’d like the Rev. Swabey to review for Cookson’s Agenda & Rev. Swabey the man wot converted Eliot to anglican choich & UNshockable & def. one of us & yens to know what’s shakin’ with us over here…so trust me & send on

  & I was naturally DEElighted to discover that one small literary effort upon my part had the power to make you far madder than one literary effort upon yr part—alls it did was elevate moi lofty dammed perch loftier & LOFTier…& have NO idea WHAT means “lawsuits” etc.…& my dear Bukowski IF I had the discipline not to sue Nation magazine why wd I want to sue you or ANYbody?? I do not take notice of the law for the dogs but only the Law which governs Ladies & Gentlemen…ahem. & AH men.

  and if you want to keep the things away from H.D.’s poetry & leave it up to we Superiors—well that’s YOUR responsibility…I believe in educating the kids & will only offer them ambrosia & icor…or ikor…howhellspelled

  now calm down darling & tell yr Lady that she was correct about Ernie…& didn’t know he’d gone by until he wrote & of course his portrait of you was just as irritated as yr portrait of him—found you lacking in any appreciation of truth beauty etc & with low morals & so forth & on…but babe he’s a hick & there are NO more moral-ists on earth than the Jews. If you tie that up with mid-western morality you got my Ernie/