when the hunter hurts himself

of course, you’re going to find the dead
everywhere–in the trunk of your car,
in your mirror,
in the preview of the latest blockbuster
movie,
in the line of bathing beauties,
in the supermarket line,
in the line of fire,
in the fire and
in the presidential palace.
you’re going to find the dead in the
placenta and in the teeth of the mother
queen.
you’re going to find death everywhere
and the dead everywhere
like ants on the floor of a living
hell,
like a gold-frame mounted photo of
grandmother.
our only chance is like lilacs in the
dream of a pig.
ten billion billion to one that
we will ever escape to anyplace near
decent.
we are stuck to the glue of death
in and out of life.
the whores have laughed at us rightly.

human hearts attempting to rise become
as crushed freeways cats.
mock that, you dead fart of life
holding your glass of gin,
your mouth is rotten from the lies
of your sub-soul, click!–you’re
gone, no matter.

sometimes the weight of the human
beast multiplied is such a
contemptuous moment of living
that we must kill ourselves
dead
to get away from the dead
if only for an
instant.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1990
Source
Original manuscript