Three Oranges

C Charles Bukowski Charles Bukowski
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#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. first time my father overheard me listening to this bit of music he asked me, "what is it?" "it's called Love For Three Oranges," I informed him. "boy," he said, "that's getting it cheap." he meant sex. listening to it I always imagined three oranges sitting there, you know how orange they can get, so mightily orange. maybe Prokofiev had meant what my father thought. if so, I preferred it the other way the most horrible thing I could think of was part of me being what ejaculated out of the end of his stupid penis. I will never forgive him for that, his trick that I am stuck with, I find no nobility in parenthood. I say kill the Father before he makes more such as I. from ONTHEBUS - 1992

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