Friday, May 8, 2009

A plausible finish by Charles Bukowski


There ought to be a place to go

When you can't sleep

Or you're tired getting drunk

And the grass doesn't work anymore

And I don't mean to go to

Hash or Cocaine

I mean a place to go

Besides a death that's waiting

And a love that doesn't work

Anymore.

 

There ought to be a place to go

When you can't sleep

Besides a tv set or a movie

Or a newspaper

Or a novel about a woman

With her clit in her throat.

 

It's not having that place to go

That creates the people in madhouses

And the suicides.

 

I suppose what most people do

When there isn't any place to go

Is to go to someplace or something

That hardly satisfies them,

And this ritual tends to sandpaper them,

Into a dullness where they can relax

With out hope.

 

Those faces you see everyday

On the streets

Were not created entirely without

Thought: Be kind to them:

They have

Escaped.

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