Jabberwocky
Frumious Bandersnatch
total madness by Charles Bukowski
alright, I know that you're tired of hearing it
but how about this one last time?
all those tiny rooms in all those cities,
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were
it was the same any place and every place,
thousands and thousands of miles spent
looking out the window of a Greyhound bus
listening to them talk, looking at them,
their heads, their ears, the way they walked.
these were strangers from elsewhere,
lifeless parallel perpendiculars,
they drove the blade through my gut,
even the lovely girls,
with guile of eye, with the lilt and magic of
their bodies
were only a down payment on
mirage
life's cheap trick.
I went from room to room,
from city to city,
hiding, looking, waiting...
for what?
for nothing but the irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like
them.
I loved those old rooms,
the worn rugs,
the walk down the hall
to the bathroom,
even the rats and the
mice and the roaches
were comrades.
and along the way
somehow I discovered
the classical composers.
I had an old record player,
and rather than eat
I used what funds I had
for cheap wine and
record albums.
and I rolled cigarettes,
smoked, drank,
listened to music
in the dark.
I remember one particular
night
when Wagner really lifted
the ceiling off of
my room
I got up
out of bed
joy-stricken,
I stood there and lifted
both arms towards the
ceiling
and I caught the sight of
myself in the dresser
mirror
and there was nothing left
of me,
a skeleton of a man,
down from 200 pounds to
130,
with sunken cheeks.
I saw this dead skull
looking at me
and it was so ridiculous and so lovely
that I started to laugh
and the thing in the mirror
laughed back
and it got
funnier and funnier
as I lifted my arms
higher toward the ceiling.
and along with those old
rooms,
I was lucky,
I had gentle old landladies,
with pictures of Christ along the
stairways
but they were always nice
in spite of that.
"Mr Chinaski, your rent is
over due, are you all
right?"
"oh, yes, thank you"
"I hear your music playing
all the time, night and day,
you sit in your room night
and day with all the shades
pulled down...
are you alright?"
"I'm a writer."
"a writer?"
"yes, I just went something
to the New Yorker.
I'm sure I'll be hearing from
them any day now."
somehow, if you tell people
you are a writer
they will put up with all
sorts of excuses
especially if you are
in your early
twenties.
later on, it's a hard
sell
as I was to
find out.
but I loved all those
small rooms in all of
those cities with all
of those landladies
and Brahms
and Sebelius
and Shostakovich
and Eric Coats
and Sir Edward Elgar
and the Chopin Etudes
and Borodin
Beethoven,
Hayden,
Handel,
Mussorgsky
etc.
now, somehow, after
decades of
those rooms
and half-assed barren
jobs
and after tossing out
nearly 40 or 50
pounds of rejection,
manuscripts
I still return to a
small room
here,
to recount to you
once more
the wonder of
my madness
then.
the difference now
being
that while my writing hasn't
changed that much,
my luck
has.
and it was in those rooms,
in the half drunken light of
some 4 a.m.
a shrunken man upon the
shelf of nowhere,
was young enough to
then,
remain young
forever.
rooms of
glory.
alright, I know that you're tired of hearing it
but how about this one last time?
all those tiny rooms in all those cities,
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were
it was the same any place and every place,
thousands and thousands of miles spent
looking out the window of a Greyhound bus
listening to them talk, looking at them,
their heads, their ears, the way they walked.
these were strangers from elsewhere,
lifeless parallel perpendiculars,
they drove the blade through my gut,
even the lovely girls,
with guile of eye, with the lilt and magic of
their bodies
were only a down payment on
mirage
life's cheap trick.
I went from room to room,
from city to city,
hiding, looking, waiting...
for what?
for nothing but the irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like
them.
I loved those old rooms,
the worn rugs,
the walk down the hall
to the bathroom,
even the rats and the
mice and the roaches
were comrades.
and along the way
somehow I discovered
the classical composers.
I had an old record player,
and rather than eat
I used what funds I had
for cheap wine and
record albums.
and I rolled cigarettes,
smoked, drank,
listened to music
in the dark.
I remember one particular
night
when Wagner really lifted
the ceiling off of
my room
I got up
out of bed
joy-stricken,
I stood there and lifted
both arms towards the
ceiling
and I caught the sight of
myself in the dresser
mirror
and there was nothing left
of me,
a skeleton of a man,
down from 200 pounds to
130,
with sunken cheeks.
I saw this dead skull
looking at me
and it was so ridiculous and so lovely
that I started to laugh
and the thing in the mirror
laughed back
and it got
funnier and funnier
as I lifted my arms
higher toward the ceiling.
and along with those old
rooms,
I was lucky,
I had gentle old landladies,
with pictures of Christ along the
stairways
but they were always nice
in spite of that.
"Mr Chinaski, your rent is
over due, are you all
right?"
"oh, yes, thank you"
"I hear your music playing
all the time, night and day,
you sit in your room night
and day with all the shades
pulled down...
are you alright?"
"I'm a writer."
"a writer?"
"yes, I just went something
to the New Yorker.
I'm sure I'll be hearing from
them any day now."
somehow, if you tell people
you are a writer
they will put up with all
sorts of excuses
especially if you are
in your early
twenties.
later on, it's a hard
sell
as I was to
find out.
but I loved all those
small rooms in all of
those cities with all
of those landladies
and Brahms
and Sebelius
and Shostakovich
and Eric Coats
and Sir Edward Elgar
and the Chopin Etudes
and Borodin
Beethoven,
Hayden,
Handel,
Mussorgsky
etc.
now, somehow, after
decades of
those rooms
and half-assed barren
jobs
and after tossing out
nearly 40 or 50
pounds of rejection,
manuscripts
I still return to a
small room
here,
to recount to you
once more
the wonder of
my madness
then.
the difference now
being
that while my writing hasn't
changed that much,
my luck
has.
and it was in those rooms,
in the half drunken light of
some 4 a.m.
a shrunken man upon the
shelf of nowhere,
was young enough to
then,
remain young
forever.
rooms of
glory.
