Charles Bukowski Poems

the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
...

As the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
...

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
...

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
...

I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
...

she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
...

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
...

at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
...

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
...