poem for nobody

the apprehension of reality, the death of the flower
girls, the folding of hope, the guilty crush of the
wasted years, the nightmare faces that only you can
see, the mad armies dying for miscalculated truths.
old shoes in old corners empty of feet like
voices that say love but have no

see the toothbrush in the mirror, the mirror in the
wall, the wall in the house, the house in

always the wrong voice on the telephone.

the mouse with beautiful eyes who wants to live in
your brain.
the bedpan that waits for Miss America.

the angry, the empty, the lonely, the

museums of fear.

as many killers as flies.

vacations to nowheres
turtles with dirty words carved on their backs.

a place for the knife to go in.

Cain was Able.
give us this day our daily dread.

awful when  the greatest freedom you can find is pissing
in the middle of the night in some

each morning to enter zero
humanity a hammer to the brain,
a bouquet of blood

a fool with his harmonica
playing ellagic sub-tunes while
burning to death
without elegance.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript