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 —
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.

by Charles Bukowski

Comments (3)

This celebrates the big shade umbrella of the banyan that I remember... depicting geneology itself as trees of life... thanks for a fresh visualisation for what is not longer within my reach
I haven't seen this big wonder! good poem, now i wanan see this big wonder! Preets
i saw the banyan tee at chennai...the biggest...nice poem...love...nalini