日志
布考斯基诗二首：《自杀的孩子》《致拿着我诗歌的荡妇》
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作者：查尔斯.布考斯基
翻译：莫笑愚
《自杀的孩子》
我去了最糟的酒吧
指望在那儿
被谋杀。
但我所能做的只是
再次将自己
灌醉。
更糟的是，酒友们甚至
开始
喜欢我了。
我在那儿只想惹怒别人
并被推入黑暗的
深渊
结果是我赢得了
免费饮品
恰逢某地
某个
龟儿子躺在医院的
病床上，
全身插满了
管子
为了活着，他拼命挣扎
使出了吃奶的劲。
无人会助我
死亡
当我们畅饮
达旦，
当第二天
等着我
用它的钢钳，
用它臭气熏天的
匿名，
它暧昧的
态度。
死亡并非总是
如期而至
当你呼唤
它，
哪怕你从一个
闪光的
城堡
或者从一艘远洋游轮
或者从地球上
最好（或最差）
的酒吧呼
唤它。
如此无礼
只会令众神
犹豫并
推迟死期。
问我：我已
72岁了。
《致拿走我诗歌的荡妇》
有人说该让悔恨远离
诗歌，
该抽象，这貌似有理，
但是耶稣啊；
12首诗歌失踪了我连尸首也找不到而你还拿走了
我的
油画，我最好的墨宝； 这令我窒息;
难道你也像她们一样要榨干我的皮？
为何不拿走我的现金？她们通常会从一个醉醺醺
昏睡在角落的醉鬼裤兜里拿走金钱
下次就拿走我的左臂或者一张50元的钞票
但不要拿走我的诗歌：
我并非莎士比亚
但有时候就是
再也不会有诗歌，抽象或其它；
但钱和荡妇和醉鬼却总是遍地皆是
直至最后一枚炸弹，
但正如上帝所说，
当他翘着二郎腿儿，
我知道我在何处造就了许多诗人
而并非众多
诗歌。
附英文原文：
THE SUICIDE KID
by Charles Bukowski
I went to the worst of bars
hoping to get
killed.
but all I could do was to
get drunk
again.
worse, the bar patrons even
ended up
liking me.
there I was trying to get
pushed over the dark
edge
and I ended up with
free drinks
while somewhere else
some poor
son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital
bed,
tubes sticking out all over
him
as he fought like hell
to live.
nobody would help me
die as
the drinks kept
coming,
as the next day
waited for me
with its steel clamps,
its stinking
anonymity,
its incognisant
attitude.
death doesn’t always
come running
when you call
it,
not even if you
call it
from a shining
castle
or from an ocean liner
or from the best bar
on earth (or the
worst).
such impertinence
only makes the gods
hesitate and
delay.
ask me: I’m
72.
TO THE WHORE WHO TOOK MY POEMS
BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; it's stifling;
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
