heads without faces seem in all the places…

to go mad, to suicide or to
continue.
sitting here now is ridiculously
perfect:   there’s nothing to
compare it to.

a palsy past and a shortening
future, days like this
one can become depressed with
the saying on a fortune cookie.

fat boys with fat souls play
with balls of dung as
our November rings like a cotton
bell.

there still might be a part for
us somewhere:   perhaps we’ll
expell gas 32 times per hour as
barracuda nuns piss in the flower
bowls.

it’s not the doing
it’s the waiting
it’s not the waiting
it’s the waste
it’s not the waste
it’s the durability of the
superstructure.

one who believes
concedes.

simply edged past denomination
we will strike it up with the
shrikes.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1980
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: