Last Days Of The Suicide Kid-Charles Bukowski

I can see myself now after all these suicide days and nights, being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes (of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky) by a subnormal and bored nurse there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull looking for the mercy of death Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski O, yeah, yeah the children walk past and I don’t even exist and lovely women walk by with big hot hips and warm buttocks and tight hot everything praying to be loved and I don’t even exist It’s the first sunlight we’ve had in 3 days, Mr. Bukowski. Oh, yeah, yeah. there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair, myself whiter than this sheet of paper, bloodless, brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski, gone Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski O, yeah, yeah pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of my mouth. 2 young schoolboys run by — Hey, did you see that old guy Christ, yes, he made me sick! after all the threats to do so somebody else has committed suicide for me at last. the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush, puts it in my hand. I don’t even know what it is. it might as well be my pecker for all the good it does.