stay out of my slippers, you fool

it’s not good, some of the days we have, horrible, dead dog in the
street days.
son of a bitch, going on sometimes seems rather
read in the paper the other day,
a man fell into a meat grinder and was ground
makes you think a bit about the gods.
like some things seem almost planned, worked out on some
drawing board.
it’s fate, they say.
this man was born to die being ground to bits in a meat
that was his purpose.
they allowed him to do a few things first.
he’ll be replaced.
somebody will take his job.
somebody will take your job
and mine.
your place and mine.
and the trees will shed their leaves
and the whores will sing in their showers
and the cats will sleep throughout the day
and the 20th century will click into the 21st
and somebody will throw away your shoes
and your belt and your old clothes and your
new clothes.
somebody will sleep in your bed.
somebody will throw a handful of dirt upon
I get like this when I read about a man being
ground to death in a meat
how do you get?
what do you know?
get the hell out of my face!

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript