how are your balls, bukowski?

my balls are itching,
red, sore
and haven’t
been happy
for years.

that’s all women
really want
no matter what
they say. no one

or two in particular
just lots. and you
try but they’re
so goddamned
fragile and dem-
anding. she’ll say
something like,

“you’re real nasty
when you drink
after we have sex”
and i’ll say
“then go find
yourself
a man who
doesn’t drink
or fuck
so much, but,
for chrissake,
just stick
with him.”

and then i
might call her
a whore or
something and
it’s good
to know that when-

ever a woman
gets out of line
you can just
kick her in
the face.


and i’ve always
thought of
vaginas
like flowers
and myself
a big ugly
grunting mean
sad drunk
frankenstein

and they all say
“have you seen
him? he’s the
new voice of
a new lost
generation.”
i said, “i’m
no great writer,
i can’t even
make an honest
woman”

but then,
that money can
make you
do wonderful things
and drink
the good scotch
not that rat piss
they drink over
on skid row

and i told her
that i always thought
whores were
beautiful, and
i’m not too drunk
yet, but i’m
out of money,
darlin.

i don’t
cry when you’re
gone, i put on
Brahms, sleep
with these
young strangers
who’ve read
my stuff, and

i sit at
my typewriter
and start
wishing it was
a gun.