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Bukowski, Charles: I Meet The Famous Poet

Portre of Bukowski, Charles

I Meet The Famous Poet (English)

this poet had long been famous

and after some decades of

obscurity I

got lucky

and this poet appeared

interested

and asked me to his

beach apartment.

he was homosexual and I was

straight, and worse, a

lush.

I came by, looked

about and

declaimed (as if I didn't

know), "hey, where the

fuck are the

babies?"

he just smiled and stroked

his mustache.

he had little lettuces and

delicate cheeses and

other dainties

in his refrigerator.

"where you keep you fucking

beer, man?" I

asked.

it didn't matter, I had

brought my own

bottles and I began upon

them.

he began to look

alarmed: "I've heard about

your brutality, please desist from

that!"

I flopped down on his

couch, belched: "ah, shit, baby, I'm

not gonna hurt ya! ha, ha,

ha!"

"you are a fine writer," he

said, "but as a person you are

utterly

despicable!"

"that's what I like about me

best, baby!" I

continued to pour them

down

at once

he seemed to vanish behind

some sliding wooden

doors.

"hey, baby, come on

out! I ain't gonna do no

bad! we can sit around and

talk that dumb literary

bullshit all night

long! I won't

brutalize you,

shit, I

promise!"

"I don't trust you,"

came the little

voice

well, there was nothing to

do

but slug it down, I was

too drunk to drive

home.

 

when I awakened in the

morning he was standing over

me

smiling.

"uh," I said,

"hi..."

"did you mean what you

said last night? he

asked.

"uh, what wuz

ut?"

"I slid the doors back and

stood there and you saw

me and you said that

I looked like I was riding the

prow of some great sea

ship... you said that

I looked like a

norseman! is

that true?"

"oh, yeah, yeah, you

did..."

he fixed me some hot tea

with toast

and I got that

down.

"well," I said, "good to

have met

you..."

"I'm sure," he

answered.

the door closed behind

me

and I found the elevator

down

and

after some wandering about the

beach front

I found my car, got

in, drove off

on what appeared to be

favorable terms

between the famous poet and

myself

but

it wasn't

so:

he started writing un-

beliable hateful stuff

about

me

and I

got my shots in at

him.

the whole matter

was just about

like

most other writers

meeting

 

and

anyhow

that part about

calling him a

Norseman

wasn't true at

all: I called him

Viking

and it also

isn't true

that without his

aid

I never would have

appeared in the

Penguin Collection of

Modern Poets

along with him

and who

was it?

yeah:

Lamantia.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.bukowski.byethost13.com

Encuentro con el famoso poeta (Spanish)

Aquel poeta había sido famoso

y después de unas décadas de

oscuridad

tuve suerte

y aquel poeta pareció

interesarse

y me pidió que fuera a su

apartamento en la playa.

el era homosexual y yo

heterosexual, y lo que es peor,

joven y lozano.

Llegué, eché una

mirada y

declamé (Como si no lo

supiera), "Oye! Dónde

cojones están las

tías?"

el simplemente sonrió y se tocó

su mostacho.

Tenía pequeñas lechugas y

delicados quesos y

otras exquisiteces

en la nevera.

"donde guardas la jodida

cerveza, tío?" Le

pregunté.

no importaba, yo había

traído mis propias

botellas y empecé

con ellas.

comenzó a parecer

alarmado: "He oído sobre

tu brutalidad, por favor desiste de

ella!"

me apalanqué en su

cama, eructé: "ah, mierda nena, no voy

a hacerte daño! ja, ja,

ja!"

"eres un excelente escritor," dijo

el, "pero como persona eres

extremadamente

despreciable"

"eso es lo que más me gusta de

mi, nena!"

continúe sirviéndome

bebida

en seguida

pareció desvanecerse tras

unas puertas correderas

de madera.

"eh nena, sal de

ahí! no te voy a hacer nada

malo! podemos sentarnos y

hablar sobre esa estúpida mierda

literaria toda la

noche! no te

embruteceré,

mierda, lo

prometo!"

"no te creo!,"

dijo una

vocecita

bien, no podía hacer nada

sino

seguir bebiendo, estaba

demasiado borracho para conducir

a casa.

 

cuando me desperté por la

mañana, el estaba de pie inclinado sobre

mi

sonriendo.

"Ah," dije,

"hola..."

"decías en serio lo que me

dijiste la pasada noche?" preguntó

él.

"ah, el

que?"

"abrí las puertas y me estuve

ahí de pie y tu me viste

y dijiste que

parecía que yo estuviera surcando

el mar en la proa de un gran

barco... dijiste que

parecía un

escandinavo! es

cierto?"

"oh, si, si, lo

parecías..."

me preparó té caliente

con tostadas

y me lo

zampé.

"bien," dije, ha

sido estupendo

conocerte..."

"estoy seguro," contestó

él.

la puerta se cerró detrás

mío

y encontré el ascensor

para bajar

y

después de vagabundear un poco por

la playa,

encontré mi coche,

subí, y me fui

en lo que parecían ser

términos agradables

entre el famoso poeta y

yo

pero

no era

así:

el empezó a escribir material

increíblemente odioso

sobre

mi

y yo

dirigí mis disparos hacia

él.

todo el asunto

fue más o menos

como

la mayoría de encuentros de otros

escritores

 

y

de todos modos

esa parte sobre que

le llamé

escandinavo

no era cierta en

absoluto: Le llamé

vikingo

y tampoco

es cierto

que sin su

ayuda

yo nunca hubiera

aparecido en la

Penguin Collection of

Modern Poets

junto a el

y quien

era?

ah, si:

Lamantia.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://gatopistola.blogspot.hu

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