he drank wine all night of the <br />28th, and he kept thinking of her: <br />the way she walked and talked and loved <br />the way she told him things that seemed true <br />but were not, and he knew the color of each <br />of her dresses <br />and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of <br />each heel <br />as well as the leg shaped by it. <br /> <br />and she was out again and when he came home,and <br />she'd come back with that special stink again, <br />and she did <br />she came in at 3 a.m in the morning <br />filthy like a dung eating swine <br />and <br />he took out a butchers knife <br />and she screamed <br />backing into the rooming house wall <br />still pretty somehow <br />in spite of love's reek <br />and he finished the glass of wine. <br /> <br />that yellow dress <br />his favorite <br />and she screamed again. <br /> <br />and he took up the knife <br />and unhooked his belt <br />and tore away the cloth before her <br />and cut off his balls. <br /> <br />and carried them in his hands <br />like apricots <br />and flushed them down the <br />toilet bowl <br />and she kept screaming <br />as the room became red <br /> <br />GOD O GOD! <br />WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? <br /> <br />and he sat there holding 3 towels <br />between his legs <br />no caring now whether she left or <br />stayed <br />wore yellow or green or <br />anything at all. <br /> <br />and one hand holding and one hand <br />lifting he poured <br />another wine<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/freedom-2/
