A Radio With Guts

uswritten by Charles Bukowski

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.



Charles Bukowski

Other poems by Charles Bukowski

The Aliens

uswritten by Charles Bukowski, published on Thu 03.10.2011 at 15:24

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat

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the great slob

uswritten by Charles Bukowski, published on Sat 02.26.2011 at 01:40

I was always a natural slob
I liked to lay upon the bed
in undershirt (stained, of
course) (and with cigarette
holes)
shoes off

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For Jane: With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:

uswritten by Charles Bukowski, published on Mon 02.21.2011 at 14:53

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,

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The Icecream People

uswritten by Charles Bukowski, published on Fri 02.11.2011 at 17:51

the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--

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Sleep

uswritten by Charles Bukowski, published on Sat 01.22.2011 at 08:31

she was a short one
getting fat and she had once been
beautiful and
she drank the wine
she drank the wine in bed and

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Nirvana

uswritten by Charles Bukowski, published on Tue 01.18.2011 at 02:27

not much chance,

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