The Last Days of the Suicide Kid

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—
35

“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.

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  1. henrycharlesbukowski posted this