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The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid by Charles Bukowski I can see myself now after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes (of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal and bored nurse
There I am sitting upright in my wheelchair
almost blind,
eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull looking for the mercy of death
"Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?"
"O, yeah, yeah"
The children walk past and I don't even exist
and lovely women walk by with big hot hips and warm buttocks and tight hot,
everything praying to be loved
and I don't even exist.
"It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days, Mr. Bukowski."
"Oh, yeah, yeah."
There I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone,
gamble gone,
me, Bukowski, gone
"Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?"
"O, yeah, yeah"
Pissing in my pajamas,
slop drooling out of my mouth.
2 young schoolboys run by
"Hey, did you see that old guy?"
"Christ, yes, he made me sick!"
After all the threats to do so
somebody else has committed suicide for me,
at last.
The nurse stops the wheelchair,
breaks a rose from a nearby bush,
puts it in my hand.
I don't even know what it is.
it might as well be my pecker for all the good it does.
Και ενα σχετικο ωραιο βιντεο
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbbmZenxtVI