Charles Bukowski - Love is a dog from hell: poems, 1974-1977

I tell her I must go to the racetrack. shes been here about 2 nights and 2 days. when will I see you again? I ask. she suggests that might be up to me. I nod and Mozart plays. frankly, I was sliding down into a pit really feeling shitty and low when I lucked into this lady with a large bed covered with a jeweled canopy plus wine, champagne, smokes, pills and color tv. we stayed in bed and drank wine, champagne, smoked, popped pills by the dozens as I (feeling shitty and low) tried to get over this affair that had gone bad. we stayed in bed and drank wine, champagne, smoked, popped pills by the dozens as I (feeling shitty and low) tried to get over this affair that had gone bad.

I watched the tv trying to dull my senses, but the thing that really helped was this very long (specially written for tv) drama about spies American spies and Russian spies, and they were all so clever and cool even their children didnt know their wives didnt know, and in a way they hardly knew and I found out about counter-spies, double-spies: guys who worked both sides, and then this one who was a double-spy turned into a triple-spy, it got nicely confusing I dont even think the guy who wrote the script knew what was happening it went on for hours! seaplanes rammed into icebergs, a priest in Madison, Wisc. murdered his brother, a block of ice was shipped in a casket to Peru in lieu of the worlds largest diamond, and blondes walked in and out of rooms eating creampuffs and walnuts; the triple-spy turned into a quadruple-spy and everybody loved everybody and it went on and on and the hours passed and it all finally vanished like a paperclip in a bag of trash and I reached over and flicked off the set and slept well for the first time in a week and a half.