in the cupboard sits my bottle
like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers.
I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony,
sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere,
the phone rings gamboling its sound
against the odds of the crooked sea;
I drink deeply and evenly now,
I drink to paradise
and the lie of love.
― Charles Bukowski, from “soirée,” The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966. (Black Sparrow Pr; First Edition edition, May 1, 1988)