only the dragging of time like a dry turd being pulled by a string…

here it is in sacks and balloons that break open like
piss goblets
the prescence of absolutely nothing everywhere
it crawls up and down the legs and into the nostrils
it comes out of mouths and eyes and it talks into the
telephone for hours, it is your love and mine, my dream
and yours, it is our end, it is us shot down, mutilated,
jammed into the garbage, laughed at, finally, forever
as the people talk on and on, emptying the tiny drops
of their brains into space.
the only solution will be some non-God dark end, never
imagined, only thought about
and one is not the same as the other.
have you called your plumber lately?

it is not of consequence that we all suffer continually
what matters is when we try to dilute our suffering upon
our training is wrong:   family, church and state weaken
the luck and the will:
crawl us upon each other, humorless and mindless, that is
the formula

crabs, asses, dogs, all light gone running
like every face I see there is something more than un-
and if you don’t like the title of this poem
this time chewed like shit in the mouth of Buddha.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: