You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense

by Charles Bukowski

we only have ourselves to go on, and it’s enough…

and now as we ready to self-destruct there is very little left to kill which makes the tragedy less and more much much more.

as the junkies junk as the alkies drink as the whores whore as the killers kill the albatross blinks its eyes the weather stays mostly the same.

sometimes when everything seems at its worst when all conspires and gnaws and the hours, days, weeks years seem wasted— stretched there upon my bed in the dark looking upward at the ceiling I get what many will consider an obnoxious thought: it’s still nice to be Bukowski.

then I went on to city college where the only molesting I could see going on was what they did to your mind.

each man’s hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.

sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone are the dead rattling the walls that close us in.

something is working toward you right now, and I mean you and nobody but you.

let the bombs blow you cheap sniveling cowardly nations you mindless giants do it do it do it! and escape to your planets and space stations then you can fuck it up there too.