År efter år har Jan Malmsjö, full som en apa, bräkt fram orden till Tennysons gamla pekoral från ett avspärrat område på Skansen i Stockholm. Dikten heter “Nyårsklockan” och den klämtar för Sveriges Television. Själv läser jag inte poesi längre men jag gör ibland undantag för dikter av Charles Bukowski. Hans samlingar “Love is a dog from hell” och “The days run  away like wild horses over the hills” saknas nästan aldrig på mitt soffbord.

Det är därför jag vill dela med mig av en alternativ nyårsdikt. Föreställ dig tolvslaget och om det hjälper kan du föreställa dig Jan Malmsjö också. Han raglar fram till mikrofonen och tar till orda. Det låter så här:

Charles Bukowski: Junkies

“She shoots up in the neck” she told

me. I told her to stick it into my

ass and she tried and said “oh oh”

and I said “what the hell’s the matter?”

she said “nothing, this is New York

style” and she jammed it in again and said,

“oh shit”. I took it and put it into

my arm, I got part of it

“I don’t know why people

fuck with the stuff, there’s not that

much to it. I think they’re all losers

and they want to lose real bad. there’s

no other way, it’s like they can’t

get where they’re going or want to go

and there’s no other way

this has got to be it

she shoots up in the neck

“I know”, I said. I phoned her, she

could hardly talk, said it was

laryngitis. have some of this wine

It was white wine and 4:30 a.m. and her

daugther was sleeping in the bedroom. she

had cable TV with no sound and

a large screen young John Wayne watched

us, and we neither kissed nor made

love and I left at 6:15 a.m.

after the beer and wine were gone

so her daugther wouldn’t awaken for

school and find me sitting in

bed with her mother

with John Wayne and the night gone

and not much chance for anybody-