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O, We Are The Outcasts Analysis



Author: poem of Charles Bukowski Type: poem Views: 14

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ah, christ, what a CREW:


more


poetry, always more


P O E T R Y .





if it doesn't come, coax it out with a


laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,


get it up there in


8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.





keep it coming like a miracle.





ah christ, writers are the most sickening


of all the louts!


yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,


gutless, flea-bitten and


obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms


with their flabby hearts


they tell us


what's wrong with the world-


as if we didn't know that a cop's club


can crack the head


and that war is a dirtier game than


marriage . . .


or down in a basement bar


hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him


and children he doesn't


want


he tells us that his heart is drowning in


vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,


in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy


love.


but he thinks he's alone and


he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud


and he thinks he's


Pound.





and death! how about death? did you know


that we all have to die? even Keats died, even


Milton!


and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.


Thomas didn't want all those free drinks


all that free pussy-


they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM


when they should have left him alone so he could


write write WRITE!





poets.





and there's another


type. I've met them at their country


places (don't ask me what I was doing there because


I don't know).





they were born with money and


they don't have to dirty their hands in


slaughterhouses or washing


dishes in grease joints or


driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.





this gives them time to understand


Life.





they walk in with their cocktail glass


held about heart high


and when they drink they just


sip.





you are drinking green beer which you


brought with you


because you have found out through the years


that rich bastards are tight-


they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail


they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready


upon your arrival


from gallons of whisky to


50 cent cigars. but it's never


there.


and they HIDE their women from you-


their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,


because they've read your poems and


figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and


everything. which once might have been


true but is no longer quite


true.





and-


he WRITES TOO.


POETRY, of


course. everybody


writes


poetry.





he has plenty of time and a


postoffice box in town


and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day


looking and hoping for accepted


poems.





he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the


soul.





he thinks your mind is ill because you are


drunk all the time and have to work in a


factory 10 or 12 hours a


night.





he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a


poorer rich


man.


he lets you gaze for 30 seconds


then hustles her


out. she has been crying for some


reason.





you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the


guesthouse he says,


"come on over to dinner


sometime."


but he doesn't say when or


where. and then you find out that you are not even


IN HIS HOUSE.





you are in


ONE of his houses but


his house is somewhere


else-


you don't know


where.





he even has x-wives in some of his


houses.





his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from


you. he doesn't want to give up a


damn thing. and you can't blame him:


his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,


talented, well-dressed, schooled, with


varying French-German accents.





and!: they


WRITE POETRY TOO. or


PAINT. or


fuck.





but his big problem is to get down to that mail


box in town to get back his


rejected poems


and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes


in all his other


houses.





meanwhile, the starving Indians


sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert


town.





the Indians are not allowed in his houses


not so much because they are a fuck-threat


but because they are


dirty and


ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt


with the beerstain on the front.


ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and


forget about


it.





he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at


the


train station.





of course, they weren't


there. "We'll be there to meet the great


Poet!"





well, I looked around and didn't see any


great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and


40 degrees. those things


happen. the trouble was there were no


bars open. nothing open. not even a


jail.





he's a poet.


he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.


no blood involved that


way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or


not-I don't have the


money.





he walks out with his cocktail glass


disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,


then suddenly comes walking back in


unannounced


with the same cocktail glass


to make sure I haven't gotten hold of


something more precious than


Life itself.





my cheap green beer is killing


me. he shows heart (hurrah) and


gives me a little pill that stops my


gagging.


but nothing decent to


drink.





he'd bought a small 6 pack


for my arrival but that was gone in an


hour and 15


minutes.





"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had


said.





I used his phone (one of his phones)


to get deliveries of beer and


cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,


downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor


roll. and the boy needed a tip, of


course.





the way it was shaping up I could see that I was


hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even


Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have


had beerstains on his


shirt.





anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his


x-wives I was too drunk to


make it.





scared too. sure, I imagined him peering


through the window-


he didn't want to give up a damn thing-


and


leveling the luger while I was


working


while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over


the Muzak


and shooting me in the ass first and


my poor brain


later.





"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,


"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."





I see him published in some of the magazines


now. not very good stuff.





a poem about me


too: the Polack.





the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his


country, other countries, all countries, the Polack


works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other


fools with "pre-drained spirits."


the Polack drinks seas of green beer


full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated


hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags


"fragile fags." the Polack hates his


wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become


an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an


"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a


spastic gut. the Polack has a


"rectal brain."





thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for


this? I know I still owe you for the


pill.





Your poem is not too good


but at least I got your starch up.


most of your stuff is about as lively as a


wet and deflated


beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.


going to invite me out this


Summer? I might scrape up


trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet


you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest


pecker in the state of California.





and guess what?


he writes


POETRY


too!






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