Picked up a few “new poems” by Bukowski, left in his will to be published after his death. After reading “nothing but a scarf”, a sniping song of war against society animal Truman Capote, “this ice-skater-of-a-writer”, and other poems like it, I understand why. I never knew how little B. thought of his fellow poets and the whole scene alien to him until it absorbed him, I presume, as all alternatives are absorbed into the great literary nexus. Oddly enough, I’d picked up Capote’s «Breakfast at Tiffany’s» (slim, thin stuff says B.) up one day earlier at the same book shop. Now they both sat on my couch at home: Bukowski was farting melodiously, his mean shadow towered over the slight frame of Capote who indeed looked like an “old frog” and was whistling an old Cole Porter song. Both were looking for approval from me, it seemed, and I, of course, was looking for approval from them. C. pulled his scarf closer around his neck, B. scratched his fat neck. I moved my hands in an apologetic gesture that I had see Woody Allen perform in «Scoop». Nobody spoke. Nobody spoke for a hundred seconds which seemed like a hundred years. Well, said Bukowski, are you going to offer us a drink or not? — I was thinking the same thing, said Capote. Their eyes met as they licked their lips. I got up, put their books on the shelf and they disappeared unapologetically. There’re only very few writers who maintain a constant presence in our living room even without their work laying about. Most of them continue their bickering and biting in silence on the shelves.
[100 Days At Plattenbau] Photos: C Bukowski (left); T Capote (right).