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-