I went to the worst of bars (The Suicide Kid) by Charles Bukowski
I went to the worst of barshoping to getkilled.but all I could do was toget drunkagain.worse, the bar patrons evenended upliking me.there I was trying to getpushed over the darkedgeand I ended up withfree drinkswhile somewhere elsesome poorson-of-a-bitch was in a hospitalbed,tubes sticking out all overhimas he fought like hellto live.nobody would help medie asthe drinks keptcoming,as the next daywaited for mewith its steel clamps,its stinkinganonymity,its incogitantattitude.death doesn't alwayscome runningwhen you callit,not even if youcall itfrom a shiningcastleor from an ocean lineror from the best baron earth (or theworst).such impertinenceonly makes the godshesitate anddelay.ask me: I'm72.
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