repeat

it’s an
old poem:
sitting here
again
at 3 a.m.
having typed a
few,
all the
cigarettes
smoked,
the pages
on the
floor,
down to
the last
glass of
wine.

to move
the body
to the
bed

thinking,
such easy
luck, I’ll
take
it

wine and
poems

this is the
way
the ancient
Chinese
poets
must have
laughed at
death and
life

and
for
it

them

us.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1983
Source
Original manuscript