10 de noviembre de 2013

Hell, Charles Bukowski

there is no hell like your own hell,
none can compare,
twisting in the sheets at night,
your ass freezing,
your mind on fire,
everything stupid, stupid,
as you are stuck in your poor body and in
your poor life
and it’s all slowly dissolving , dissolving
into nothing.
like all other bodies, like all the other
we all are being counted out,
taken down
by disease
by just being rubbed up against
the hard days, the harder days.
there’s no escaping
we just have to take it,
accept it—-
or like most—-
not think about it.
at all.
shoes off and on.
holidays come and gone.
dress, undress,
eat, sleep.
drive an automobile.
pay your taxes.
wash under the arms and
behind the neck
and scrub everything
else, for sure.
pick your coffin ahead
of time.
feel the smooth wood.
go for the soft, padded, expensive
the salesman will commend you
on your good
then horrify him.
tell him you want to try it for
there’s no hell like your own
hell and there’s nobody else
to share it with
you might as well be the only
person left on earth.
sometimes you feel as if you
and maybe you are.
meanwhile, pluck the lint from
your belly button,
accept what is,
get laid once in a while,
shake hands with nothing at all.
it’s always been like this, it’s always been like
don’t scream.
there’s nobody left to hear
strange things,
strange things these cities, the trees,
our feet walking the sidewalks,
the blood inside us
lubricating our
the centuries finally shot apart
as you slip on your stockings and pull them
up over your

Charles Bukowski

No hay comentarios: