Charles Bukowski

Prayer In Bad Weather

By God, I don't know what to do. They're so nice to have around. They have a way of playing with the balls and looking at the cock very seriously, turning it, tweaking it, examining each part as their long hair falls on your belly. It's not the fucking and sucking alone that reaches into a man and softens him, it's the extras, it's all the extras. Now it's raining tonight, and there's nobody. They are elsewhere, examining things in new bedrooms, in new moods, or maybe in old bedrooms. Anyhow, it's raining tonight, one hell of a dashing, pouring rain... very little to do. I've read the newspaper, paid the gas bill, the electric co., the phone bill. It keeps raining. They soften a man and then let him swim in his own juice. I need an old-fashioned whore at the door tonight, closing her green umbrella, drops her green umbrella, drops of moonlit rain on her purse, saying, "shit, man, can't you get better music than that on your radio? and turn up the heat..." It's always when a man's swollen with love and everything else that keeps raining, splattering, flooding, rain, good for the trees and the grass and the air... good for things that live alone. I would give anything for a female's hand on me tonight. They soften a man and then leave him listening to the rain.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0