they are all elsewhere/ examining things/ in new bedrooms/ – Charles Bukowski – Praying for rainy days

damn Bukowski
thinks that’s an overestimated fake
for thousands of years
„harder than The Riots of Watts”
and it’s not about booze

it’s too precious and delicate
and it’s not about women
because women f*** with roses
or with the paradise-birds
and still get payed for the job

it’s all about poetry
it’s about that funny slaughterhouse
in which we kick each other's stupid ass
like some real lovers
and then we rearrange our underwear
or what’s left of it

it’s all about a load of shit good to be thrown
away in the garbage
cause – don't mention it – there is nothing heroically
and every damned thing is a makeup
there is just a mouse shivering in a corner
two ugly frogs are hugging all what is left of the sun
and above all
the monkey is trying hard to improvise a tired smile

damn Bukowski
I don't know a living soul with such a perseveration
to f***-up his poems
like his money on horse-races
like his fat-and-ugly mexican whores
and still somehow to become his own hero
insane like this
born into this
and because he had lived to much like a dog

alone with the whole world
with its bestial sexy beauty
in which actually nobody finds his mate

in which everything it’s just a cannibalistic clown
and a childish cry
almost painfully killed
by his own laughter