The Last Days Of The...

The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid

I can see myself now 

after all these suicide days and nights, 

being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes 

(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky) 

by a subnormal and bored nurse 

there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair 

almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull 

looking 

for the mercy of death 

Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski 

O, yeah, yeah 

the children walk past and I don't even exist 

and lovely women walk by 

with big hot hips 

and warm buttocks and tight hot everything 

praying to be loved 

and I don't even 

exist 

It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days, 

Mr. Bukowski. 

Oh, yeah, yeah. 

there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair, 

myself whiter than this sheet of paper, 

bloodless, 

brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski, 

gone 

Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski 

O, yeah, yeah pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of 

my mouth. 

2 young schoolboys run by — 

Hey, did you see that old guy 

Christ, yes, he made me sick! 

after all the threats to do so 

somebody else has committed suicide for me 

at last. 

the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush, 

puts it in my hand. 

I don't even know 

what it is. it might as well be my pecker 

for all the good 

it does.