upon our location:

there’s nobody here, maybe there was never anybody here;
if there’s a hell maybe I’m in hell now, how can I
tell?

there’s nobody here, I sit with people and they talk but
they don’t say anything and I keep waiting but they
don’t say anything.
they say words but the words aren’t theirs and
even the words they borrow have lost their
usefulness.

the living bury the dead but the living are
dead.

if there is a hell then I must be in hell, these are the
people of hell, the streets of hell, the cities of hell,
the world of hell, the space of hell, we send space ships
to hell and back to hell.

the madhouses are the only places where the people know
they are in hell.

they are the
realizers.

we are the pretenders, all of us,
like
this.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1986
Source
Original manuscript