here I'm supposed to be a great poet and I'm sleepy in the afternoon here I am aware of death like a giant bull charging at me and I'm sleepy in the afternoon here I'm aware of wars and men fighting in the ring and I'm aware of good food and wine and good women and I'm sleepy in the afternoon I'm aware of a woman's love and I'm sleepy in the afternoon, I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain I wonder where the summer flies have gone I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway and I'm sleepy in the afternoon. some day I won't be sleepy in the afternoon some day I'll write a poem that will bring volcanoes to the hills out there but right now I'm sleepy in the afternoon and somebody asks me, "Bukowski, what time is it?" and I say, "3:16 and a half." I feel very guilty, I feel obnoxious, useless, demented, I feel sleepy in the afternoon, they are bombing the churches, o.k., that's o.k., the libraries are filled with thousands of books of knowledge, great music sits inside the nearby radio and I am sleepy in the afternoon, I have this tomb within myself that says, ah, let the others do it, let them win, let me sleep, the wisdom is in the dark sweeping through the dark like brooms, I'm going where the summer flies have gone, try to catch me.
Diktet 3:16 and one half...fra diktsamlingen Mockingbird Wish Me Luck av Charles Bukowski