the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
Category: Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-born American poet, novelist, and short story writer.
flesh covers
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
unless it comes out of
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
Overhead my spirit flies
Overhead my spirit flies
Upon the ground and crimson skies
Whispering winds in moonlit woods
A totem oak once golden stood.
the goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the whores go down with the stars,
the whores go down with the stars
the schoolyard was a horror show: the bullies, the dragons, the
freaks