Charles Bukowski - An Almost Made Up Poem lyrics
[Charles Bukowski - An Almost Made Up Poem lyrics]
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
Blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
They are small, and the fountain is in France
Where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again
You used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
Knew famous artists and most of them
Were your lovers, and I wrote
Back, it’ all right
Go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
Because we’ never met we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met
Never
Touched so you went with the famous and wrote
About the famous, and, of course
What you found out
Is that the famous are worried about
Their fame –– not the beautiful
Young girl in bed
With them, who gives them that
And then awakens in the morning to write
Upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD we know God is dead
They’ told
Us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure maybe
It was the upper case you were one of the
Best female poets and I told the publishers
Editors, " her, print her, she’ mad but she’
Magic there’ no lie in her fire" I loved you
Like a man loves a woman he never touches
Only writes to
Keeps little photographs of i would have
Loved you more if I had sat
In a small room rolling a
Cigarette and listened to you
Piss in the bathroom
But that didn’ happen your letters got sadder
Your lovers betrayed you kid, I wrote back
All lovers betray it didn’ help you said
You had a crying bench and it
Was by a bridge and
The bridge was over a river and
You sat on the crying
Bench every night and wept for
The lovers who had
Hurt and forgotten you i wrote back but never
Heard again a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened
If I had met you
I would probably have been unfair
To you or you to me it was best like this
Blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
They are small, and the fountain is in France
Where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again
You used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
Knew famous artists and most of them
Were your lovers, and I wrote
Back, it’ all right
Go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
Because we’ never met we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met
Never
Touched so you went with the famous and wrote
About the famous, and, of course
What you found out
Is that the famous are worried about
Their fame –– not the beautiful
Young girl in bed
With them, who gives them that
And then awakens in the morning to write
Upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD we know God is dead
They’ told
Us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure maybe
It was the upper case you were one of the
Best female poets and I told the publishers
Editors, " her, print her, she’ mad but she’
Magic there’ no lie in her fire" I loved you
Like a man loves a woman he never touches
Only writes to
Keeps little photographs of i would have
Loved you more if I had sat
In a small room rolling a
Cigarette and listened to you
Piss in the bathroom
But that didn’ happen your letters got sadder
Your lovers betrayed you kid, I wrote back
All lovers betray it didn’ help you said
You had a crying bench and it
Was by a bridge and
The bridge was over a river and
You sat on the crying
Bench every night and wept for
The lovers who had
Hurt and forgotten you i wrote back but never
Heard again a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened
If I had met you
I would probably have been unfair
To you or you to me it was best like this