Charles Bukowski: Consummation of Grief
I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.
Included in Vox Populi for educational non-commercial purposes.
Reblogged this on Myriad Ways and commented:
His imagery is so solid so that when I reach for it, I can touch something real. Then sometimes he’s just a crusty old son-of-bitch, but it is all he’s got.
yes, I have a love-hate relationship with Bukowski. A crusty old son-of-a-bitch indeed.
What a deeply moving poem! I wanted to copy a few lines, but couldn’t choose: I love them all so equally much!
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