| Charles Bukowski -I meet the famous poet- |
| Sunday, April 02, 2006 |
I meet the famous poet.
Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)
this poet had long been famous
and after some decades of
obscurity I
got lucky
and this poet appeared
interested
and asked me to his
beach apartment.
he was homosexual and I was
straight, and worse, a
lush.
I came by, looked
about and
declaimed (as if I didn't
know), "hey, where the
fuck are the
babies?"
he just smiled and stroked
his mustache.
he had little lettuces and
delicate cheeses and
other dainties
in his refrigerator.
"where you keep you fucking
beer, man?" I
asked.
it didn't matter, I had
brought my own
bottles and I began upon
them.
he began to look
alarmed: "I've heard about
your brutality, please desist from
that!"
I flopped down on his
couch, belched: "ah, shit, baby, I'm
not gonna hurt ya! ha, ha,
ha!"
"you are a fine writer," he
said, "but as a person you are
utterly
despicable!"
"that's what I like about me
best, baby!" I
continued to pour them
down
at once
he seemed to vanish behind
some sliding wooden
doors.
"hey, baby, come on
out! I ain't gonna do no
bad! we can sit around and
talk that dumb literary
bullshit all night
long! I won't
brutalize you,
shit, I
promise!"
"I don't trust you,"came the little
voice
well, there was nothing to
do
but slug it down, I was
too drunk to drive
home.
when I awakened in the
morning he was standing over
me
smiling.
"uh," I said,
"hi..."
"did you mean what you
said last night? he
asked.
"uh, what wuz
ut?"
"I slid the doors back and
stood there and you saw
me and you said that
I looked like I was riding the
prow of some great sea
ship... you said that
I looked like a
norseman! is
that true?"
"oh, yeah, yeah, you
did..."
he fixed me some hot tea
with toast
and I got that
down.
"well," I said, "good to
have met
you..."
"I'm sure," he
answered.
the door closed behind
me
and I found the elevator
downandafter some wandering about the
beach front
I found my car, got
in, drove off
on what appeared to be
favorable terms
between the famous poet and
myself
but
it wasn't
so:
he started writing un-
beliable hateful stuff
about
me
and I
got my shots in at
him.
the whole matter
was just about
likemost other writers
meeting
and
anyhow
that part about
calling him a
Norseman
wasn't true at
all: I called him
a
Viking
and it also
isn't true
that without his
aid
I never would have
appeared in the
Penguin Collection of
Modern Poets
along with him
and who
was it?
yeah:
Lamantia.
Encuentro con el famoso poeta.
aquel poeta había sido famoso
y después de unas décadas de
oscuridad
tuve suerte
y aquel poeta pareció
interesarse
y me pidió que fuera a su
apartamento en la playa.
el era homosexual y yo
heterosexual, y lo que es peor,
joven y lozano.
Llegue, eche una
mirada y
declamé (Como si no lo
supiera), "Hey! Donde
cojones están las
tías?" el simplemente sonrió y se toco
su mostacho.
Tenia pequeñas lechugas y
delicados quesos y
otras exquisiteces
en la nevera.
"Dónde guardas la jodida
cerveza, tío?" Le
pregunte.
no importaba, yo había
traído mis propias
botellas y empecé
con ellas.
Comenzó a pareceralarmado: "He oído sobre
tu brutalidad, por favor desiste de
ella!"
me apalanque en su
cama, eructé: "ah, mierda nena, no voy
a hacerte daño! ha, ha,
ha!"
"eres un excelente escritor," dijo
él, "pero como persona eres
extremadamente
despreciable"
"eso es lo que más me gusta de
mi, nena!"
continué sirviéndome
bebida
en seguida
pareció desvanecerse tras
unas puertas correderas
de madera.
"eh nena, sal de
ahí! no te voy a hacer nada
malo! podemos sentarnos y
hablar sobre esa estúpida mierda
literaria toda la
noche! no te
embruteceré,
mierda, lo
prometo!"
"no te creo!,
"dijo una
vocecita
bien, no podía hacer nada
sino
seguir bebiendo, estaba
demasiado borracho para conducir
a casa.
cuando me desperté por la
mañana, el estaba de pie inclinado sobre
mi
sonriendo.
"uh," dije,
"hola..." "decías en serio lo que me
dijiste la pasada noche? pregunto
el.
"ah, el
que?"
"abrí las puertas y me estuve
ahí de pie y tu me viste
y dijiste que
parecía que yo estuviera surcando
el mar en la proa de un gran
barco... dijiste que
parecía un
escandinavo! es
cierto?"
"oh, si, si, lo
parecías..."
me preparó te caliente
con tostadas
y me lo
zampé.
"bien," dije, ha
sido estupendo
conocerte..."
"estoy seguro," contesto
él.
la puerta se cerro detrás
mío
y encontré el ascensor
para bajar
y
después de vagabundear un poco por
la playa,
encontré mi coche,
subí, y me fui
en lo que parecían ser
términos agradables
entre el famoso poeta y
yo
pero
no era
así:
el empezó a escribir material
increíblemente odioso
sobre
mi
y yo
dirigí mis disparos hacia
el.
todo el asunto
fue mas o menos
como
la mayoría de encuentros de otros
escritores
y
de todos modos
esa parte sobre que
le llame
escandinavo
no era cierta en
absoluto: Le llame
vikingo y tampoco
es cierto
que sin su
ayuda
yo nunca hubiera
aparecido en la
Penguin Collection of
Modern Poets
junto a el,
y quien
era?
ah, si:
Lamantia.Labels: Charles Bukowski |
posted by Alfil @ 5:26 AM  |
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