×àðëüç Áóêîâñêè
áåëûå ïîýòû
áåëûå ïîýòû îáû÷íî ñòó÷àò â äâåðü âåñüìà ðàíî
è ïðîäîëæàþò ñòó÷àòü è çâîíèòü
çâîíèòü è ñòó÷àòü
äàæå íåâçèðàÿ íà òî ÷òî âñå øòîðû îïóùåíû;
â êîíöå êîíöîâ ÿ âñòàþ ñ ïîõìåëüÿ
äóìàÿ ÷òî òàêàÿ íàñòîé÷èâîñòü
äîëæíà îçíà÷àòü óäà÷ó
êàêîé-íèáóäü ïðèç - æåíñêèé ëè, äåíåæíûé,
"îó ñåé÷àñ! îó ñåé÷àñ!" - êðè÷ó ÿ
èùÿ ÷òî-íèáóäü ÷òîáû ïðèêðûòü ñîáñòâåííîå óðîäëèâîå
ãîëîå òåëî. ïîðîþ ñíà÷àëà ìåíÿ òîøíèò,
ïîëîùó ðîò; ïîëîñêàíèå ëèøü âûçûâàåò íîâóþ ðâîòó.
ÿ îá ýòîì çàáûë - èäó ê äâåðè -
"àë¸?"
"âû Áóêîâñêè?"
"äà. âõîäèòå."
ìû ñèäèì è ïÿëèìñÿ äðóã íà äðóãà -
îí âåñüìà ýíåðãè÷íûé è ìîëîäîé -
ìîäíàÿ îäåæäà ïðåóñïåâàþùåãî -
âñå öâåòà è ø¸ëê -
ðîæà êàê ó õîðüêà -
"âû ìåíÿ íå ïîìíèòå?" -
ñïðàøèâàåò
îí.
"íåò."
"ÿ ðàíüøå çäåñü áûë.âû áûëè äîâîëüíî êðàòêè.âàì íå ïîíðàâèëèñü
ìîè ñòèõè."
"ïîïðîáóéòå ýòè."
îí ìíå èõ âûëîæèë. îíè áûëè áîëåå ïëîñêèìè ÷åì áóìàãà.îíè áûëè
íàïå÷àòàíû. â íèõ íå áûëî íè áèåíüÿ íè
âñïûøêè. íèêàêîãî çâó÷àíèÿ. ÿ íèêîãäà íå ÷èòàë
ìåíüøå.
"ý" - ñêàçàë ÿ - "ý-ý."
"âû õîòèòå ñêàçàòü ÷òî îíè âàì íå
íðàâÿòñÿ?"
"â íèõ íè÷åãî íåò - ýòî ñëîâíî ãîðøîê ñ èñïàðèâøåéñÿ ìî÷îé."
îí âçÿë áóìàãè, âñòàë è õîäèë
ïî êðóãó.
"ïîñëóøàéòå, Áóêîâñêè, ÿ ïðèòàùó äëÿ âàñ íåñêîëüêî äåâîê èç
Ìàëèáó, äåâêè òàêèå ÷òî âû íèêîãäà íå
âèäåëè."
"àõ òàê, ìàëûø?" - ñïðîñèë ÿ.
"äà-äà" - ñêàçàë
îí.
è âûáåæàë â
äâåðü.
åãî äåâêè èç Ìàëèáó áûëè òàêèìè æå êàê
åãî ñòèõè: îíè òàê è íå ïîÿâèëèñü.
from: "Mockingbird Wish Me Luck"
31.10.19
the white poets
the white poets usually knock quite early
and keep knocking and ringing
ringing and knocking
even though all the shades are down;
finally I arise with my hangover
figuring such persistency
must mean good fortune, a prize of some
sort—female or monetary,
“aw right! aw right!” I shout
looking for something to cover my ugly
naked body. sometimes I must vomit first,
then gargle; the gargle only makes me vomit again.
I forget it—go to the door—
“hello?”
“you Bukowski?”
“yeh. come in.”
we sit and look at each other—
he very vigorous and young—
latest blooming clothes—
all colors and silk—
face like a weasel—
“you don’t remember me?” he
asks.
“no.”
“I was here before. you were rather short. you didn’t like my
poems.”
“there are plenty of reasons for not liking
poems.”
“try these.”
he put them on me. they were flatter than the paper they were
typed
upon. there wasn’t a tick or a
flare. not a sound. I’d never read
less.
“uh,” I said, “uh-uh.”
“you mean you don’t LIKE
them?”
“there’s nothing there—it’s like a pot of evaporated piss.”
he took the papers, stood up and walked
around. “look, Bukowski. I’ll put some broads from Malibu on
you, broads like you’ve never
seen.”
“oh yeah, baby?” I asked.
“yeah, yeah,” he
said.
and ran out the
door.
his Malibu broads were like his
poems: they
never arrived.