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?
Charles Bukowski on the exterior seems like the most unlikely person on earth to have written something as beautiful as bluebird. His Cynicism, Alcoholism and penchant for prostitutes comes through heavily in one piece and then is gone in the next, ranging from plain disturbing to heartbreaking. Most of his short poems are incredible, as are all his full length novels. Post Office, Ham on Rye, Factotum, Women, Pulp, Hollywood and his help on the script for Barfly the movie, all written by him, all achingly beautiful, heavily recommended if one hasn't chanced upon them yet.
