I thought of you.

A and K have split. K, he's filing for the
divorce and living with M out in the
Valley.

H left G, she still has the kids and he's
going to school, he only has a year to go
to get his B.A.

S and R are still together.
and so are L and W.

B went up north and N was to follow
but she decided not to and then she told him
it was over. Br really loves their kid, it's
too bad.

C and L still have troubles but they talk
everything out, they want to make it work.

so do D and F, they got married and she went
to New York City for 5 months to study
dancing.

oh, G is in New York City too, studying drama.
she got that money from the insurance co.
after the car crash.

I think it's good that people keep trying,
that they talk things out.
they not like you, the moment something goes
wrong you walk right out the door, you won't talk
you're ready to dump me and everything else forever! Jesus
Christ, when things are worth keeping I think
they're worth talking about! two people living
together, it's kind of an obligation, don't you
see? actually it's more than an obligation, it's a holy
communion
hey! where the hell are you going? what's the
matter now? hey! you son-of-a-bitch!"

talk, Bukowski​

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you're always demanding
a new me.

you're sitting on the couch now,
complaining.

your voice scratches
against the window pane.

I think that no matter
what ever've done to each
other (and neither of us
has been fair)

that is is your tone of voice
that is finally most unfair.

all of our betrayals
yours and mine
don't deserve that tone of
voice.

or
that dark wailing
face

so sure that the next man
will not treat you
the way I did

or that you will not treat him
the way you did me.

your voice scratches against the
window pane

and
nothing in life ever changes
and I want to tell you so
now.

against the window pane, Bukowski​

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it's no good
after all.
it has been cut in half
drawn and
quartered and
hung out to dry.

it was hardly good
even when it was good.

the ego gets caught
in a web of desire
the ego creates that strange mirage,
love.

I need a new home for my ego,
who will she be
this time?

note for my wall, Bukowski​

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