Thursday, 08 March 2012

• Beast, by C. Bukowski

  my beast comes in the afternoon
  he gnaws at my gut
  he paws at my head
  he growls
  spits out part of me
  
  my beast comes in the afternoon
  while other people are taking pictures
  while other people are at picnics
  my beast comes in the afternoon
  across a dirty kitchen floor
  leering at me
  
  while other people are employed at jobs
  that stop their thinking
  my beast allows me to think
  about him,
  about graveyards and dementia and fear
  and stale flowers and decay
  
  and the stink of ruined thunder.
  
  my beast will not let me be
  he comes to me in the afternoons
  and gnaws and claws
  and I tell him
  
  as I double over, hands gripping my gut,
  jesus, how will I ever explain you to
  them? they think I am a coward
  but they are the cowards because they refuse to
  feel, their bravery is the bravery of snails.
  
  my beast is not interested in my unhappy
  theory - he rips, chews, spits out
  another piece of
  me.
  
  I walk out the door and he follows me
  down the street.
  we pass lovely laughing schoolgirls
  and bakery trucks
  and the sun opens and closes like an oyster
  swallowing my beast for a moment
  as I cross at a green light
  pretending that I have escaped,
  pretending that I need a loaf of bread or
  a newspaper,
  pretending that the beast is gone forever
  and that the torn parts of me are
  still there
  under a green shirt and blue pants
  as all the faces become walls
  and all the walls become impossible.
  

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