that one

your child has no name
your hair has no color
your face has no flesh
your feet have no toes
your country has ten flags

your voice has no tongue
your ideas slide like snakes
your eyes do not match

you eat bouquets of flowers
and piss in the breach,
throw poison meat to the dogs

I see you linger in alleys with a club
I see you with a knife for anybody
I see you peddling a fishhead for a heart

and when the sun comes churning down
in a million billion matchstick
you’ll come walking in from the kitchen
with a drink in your hand
humming the latest tune
and smiling at me in your red tight dress

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