murdered in the alley of the land
frost-bitten against flagpoles
pawned by females

educated in the dark for the dark

vomiting into plugged toilets
in rented rooms full of roaches and mice

no wonder we seldom sing
day noon or night

the useless wars
the useless years
the useless loves

and they ask us,
why do you drink so much?

well, I suppose if the days were made
to be wasted
the years and the loves were made
to be wasted

we can't cry, and it helps to laugh -
it's like letting out
dreams, ideals,
poisons

don't ask us to sing,
laughing and singing to us,
you see, it is a terrible joke

Christ should have laughed on the cross,
it would have petrified his killers

now there are more killers than ever
and I write poems for them.
-----------

Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from his book Burning In Water, Drowning In Flame

the dead flowers of myself

bulls strut in pinwheel glory,
rockets stun the sky,
but I don't know
quite what to make
of the dead flowers
of myself,
whether to dump them
out of the bowl
or
press them between
these blank pages
and go on;
well, all grief comes down
to hard death
and weeping finally ends.
thank the god
who made
it.

-- Written by Charles Bukowski, taken from the book Betting On the Muse
----------

Sorry for being MIA last week. My aunt died very unexpectedly early in the week and my mind was elsewhere. Ms. Smith was nice enough to accompany me to NC this weekend for the funeral.

I haven't posted any Buk since last August. I'm seriously slacking.
Back to work tomorrow.