by Charles Bukowski sitting here by the window sweating beer sweat mauled by the summer I am looking at the cat's balls. it's not my choice he sleeps in an old rocker on the porch and there he looks at me-- from behind-- hung to his cat's balls. there's his tail, damned thing, hanging out of the way-- I view his furry storage tanks-- what can a man think about while looking at a cat's nuts? certainly not the sunken navies of great sea battles. certainly not a program to aid the poor. certainly not a flower market or a dozen eggs. certainly not a broken light switch. ball iz balls, that's all-- and most certainly a cat's balls, my own are rather mushy-looking, and, I'm told by my contemporaries, quite large: "you've got a lot of balls, Bukowski!" but the cat's balls: I can't figure whether he's hung to them or whether there hung to him-- you see, there is this almost nightly battle for the female-- and it doesn't come easy for any on us. you see there-- a piece is missing from his left ear. one time I though one of his eyes had been clawed out but when the dried mass of blood peeled away a week later there was this pure goldgreen eye looking at me. his entire body is sore from bites and the other day, attempting to pet his head he yowled and almost bit me-- that fur skin around his skull, bloodless, had been split to reveal the bone. it doesn't come easy for any of us. those cat's balls, poor fellow. he sleeps now dreaming-- what?-- a fat mockingbird in his mouth?-- or surrounded by cat bitches in heat?-- he dreams his daydreams and will find out tonight. good luck, old fellow, it doesn't come easy, hung to our balls we are, that's it, we're hung to our balls, and I could use a little myself-- meanwhile-- watch the eyes and lead with the left and run like hell when it just isn't any use any more.
this is a music video by my band, Ava Luna, that i produced and provided art direction for.
She-Devil stills, two