the singular self
there are these small cliffs
above the sea
and it is night, late night;
I have been unable to sleep,
and with my car above me
like a steel mother
I climb down the cliffs,
breaking bits of rock
and being scratched by witless
and scrabby seaplants,
I make my way down
clumsy, misplaced,
an oddity on the shore,
and all around me are the lovers,
the two-headed beasts
turning to stare
at the madness
of the singular self;
shamed, I move on through them
to climb a row of wet boulders that
break the sea-stroke
into sheaths of white;
the moonlight is wet
on the bald stone
and now that I'm there
I don't want to be there
the sea stinks
and makes flushing sounds
like a toilet
it is a bad place to die;
any place is a bad place to die,
but better a yellow room
with known walls and dusty
lampshades; so....
still stupidly off-course
like a jackal in the land of lions,
I make my way back through
them, through their blankets
and fires and kisses and sandy thumpings,
back up the cliff I climb
worse off, kicking clods,
and there the black sky, the black sea
behind me
lost in the game,
and I have left my shoes down there
with them 2 empty shoes,
and in the car,
headlights on I back away,
swing left drive East,
climb up the land and out,
bare feet on worn ribbed rubber
out of there
looking for
another place.
- Charles Bukowski
there are these small cliffs
above the sea
and it is night, late night;
I have been unable to sleep,
and with my car above me
like a steel mother
I climb down the cliffs,
breaking bits of rock
and being scratched by witless
and scrabby seaplants,
I make my way down
clumsy, misplaced,
an oddity on the shore,
and all around me are the lovers,
the two-headed beasts
turning to stare
at the madness
of the singular self;
shamed, I move on through them
to climb a row of wet boulders that
break the sea-stroke
into sheaths of white;
the moonlight is wet
on the bald stone
and now that I'm there
I don't want to be there
the sea stinks
and makes flushing sounds
like a toilet
it is a bad place to die;
any place is a bad place to die,
but better a yellow room
with known walls and dusty
lampshades; so....
still stupidly off-course
like a jackal in the land of lions,
I make my way back through
them, through their blankets
and fires and kisses and sandy thumpings,
back up the cliff I climb
worse off, kicking clods,
and there the black sky, the black sea
behind me
lost in the game,
and I have left my shoes down there
with them 2 empty shoes,
and in the car,
headlights on I back away,
swing left drive East,
climb up the land and out,
bare feet on worn ribbed rubber
out of there
looking for
another place.
- Charles Bukowski
2 comments:
...so what does it mean to you?
It means different things to me at different times, depending on the mood I'm in when I read it.
Right now, I guess I would say that it means wanderlust isn't cured simply by wandering. The singular self is the piece of me that is never comfortable in familiar surroundings....and even more uncomfortable in strange ones.
...but ask me tomorrow and I might say something about seeing this as a metaphor for my daily work routine....or for the feeling I usually get at parties.
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