Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

This - Poem by Charles Bukowski

self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness


you
wonder where
the real ones are


what
giant cave
hides them


as
the deathly talentless
bow to
accolades


as
the fools are
fooled
again


you
wonder where
the real ones are


if there are
real ones.


this
self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions


centuries.


this< br>is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless


it
churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope


it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street


more difficult
near
damnable


as
the famous gather to
applaud their
seeming
greatness


as
the fools are
fooled
again


humanity
you sick
mother*****.


Comments about This by Charles Bukowski

  • Rookie Nick King-briggs (10/13/2012 6:33:00 PM)

    self-congratulatory nonsense as the
    famous gather to applaud their seeming
    greatness

    you
    wonder where
    the real ones are

    what
    giant cave
    hides them

    as
    the deathly talentless
    bow to
    accolades

    as the fools are
    fooled
    again

    you
    wonder where
    the real ones are

    if there are
    real ones.

    this
    self-congratulatory nonsense
    has lasted
    decades
    and
    with some exceptions

    centuries.

    this
    is so dreary
    is so absolutely pitiless

    it churns the gut to
    powder
    shackles hope

    it
    makes little things
    like
    pulling up a shade
    or
    putting on your shoes
    or
    walking out on the street

    more difficult
    near
    damnable

    as
    the famous gather to
    applaud their
    seeming
    greatness

    as
    the fools are
    fooled
    again

    humanity
    you sick
    motherf-. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

Poem Edited: Thursday, March 20, 2014


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