shit, sometimes it gets so lonely that I can’t even commit suicide

shit, sometimes it gets so lonely
that I can’t even commit
suicide:


the death of a snail I guess
would be more glorious than
yours or mine

now if you can make a statement
almost similar to that

and you bat left-handed on
dark nights

and seldom think of your
mother

we are probably about even

so maybe we’re doing the same
thing
tonight:

listening to that jerk-off
Beethoven’s 8th.

and rolling
HALF and HALF

BURLEY
and
BRIGHT
tobacco.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1976