Poem by Henry Charles Bukowski

these things

these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with up,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
being small,
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea
and lose the Center:
all wax without the wick,
and we see names that once meant
wisdom,
like signs into ghost towns,
and only the graves are real.

1. raw with love
2. the trash men
3. alone with everybody
4. the history of one tough motherfucker
5. big night on the town

Print

1589 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version