Charles Bukowski (16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)
naked along the side of the house,
8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil
over my body, Jesus, have I come
I once battled in dark alleys for a
now I'm not laughing.
I splash myself with oil and wonder,
how many years do you want?
how many days?
my blood is soiled and a dark
angel sits in my brain.
things are made of something and
go to nothing.
I understand the fall of cities, of
a small plane passes overhead.
I look upward as if it made sense to
it's true, the sky has rotted:
it won't be long for any of
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