35 Seconds (by Charles Bukowski)

failures. one after the
other. a whole duckpondfull
of failures. my
right arm hurts way
up into my shoulder.

it's like at the track.
you walk up to the bar
your eyes scared out of
your head and
you drink it down:
bar   legs   asses
walls       ceiling
program
horseturds

and you know you
only have 35 second left to live
and all the red mouths
want to kiss you,
all the dresses
want to lift and
show you leg,
it's like bugles
and symphonies
everywhere
like war
like war
like war

and the bartender leans
across and says
I hear they're going to
send in the 6
in the next
race.

and you say
fuck you,
and he is
a white dishtowel
in your grandmother's house
which is no longer
there.

and then he says
something.

and that's how
I hurt my
arm.

Charles Bukowski