Beer, by Charles Bukowski, from Love is A Mad Dog From Hell (1920-1994)

I don’t know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I don’t know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women— waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: “what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!” the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows it’s bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horny cowboys. well, there’s beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottle fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is. Buy "Love is a Mad Dog From Hell" Here