unclassical symphony by Charles Bukowski

the cat that died
in the middle of the street

tire-crushed in non-vain
glory

it was nothing

and neither were
we

look
away.

a cat is a cat is a cat is a cat by Charles Bukowski

she's whistling and clapping
for the cats
at 2 a.m.
as I sit here
with my wine and my
Beethoven.

"they're just prowling," I
tell her...

Beethoven rattles his bones
in majesty.

and those damn cats
don't even care
about
any of that.

and
if they did
I wouldn't like them
at
all;

things begin to lose their
natural value
as they near
human
endeavor.

nothing against
Beethoven:

he did fine
for what he
was

but I wouldn't want
him
on my rug
with one leg
over his head
while
he was
licking
his balls.

Startled into Life Like Fire by Charles Bukowski

in grievous deity my cat
walks around

he walks around and around
with electric tail and
push-button
eyes

he is
alive and
plush and
final as a plum
tree

neither of us understands
cathedrals or
the man outside
watering his
lawn

if I were all the man
that he is cat--
if there were men like this
the world could
begin

he leaps up on the couch
and walks through
porticoes of my
admiration.