more than ow

finished in the aftermath,
pummeled in the shade,
left to rot on the bank,
tousled,
doused,
oh, mama, sing songs to
me,
I can’t handle this
action.
I need more light, more
light, more light
now!
the pig is under the
blade,
the soprano screeches
inanities,
the dice come up
snake-eyes.
I can’t hold much
longer.
the troops of hell march
through
me.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1992
Source
Original manuscript