I’m 42 pages in to the Bukowski poetry collection: You get so alone at times that it just makes sense, when my eyes fell upon this beautiful poem on mortality.
Often with Bukowski, it’s a case of trawling through hundreds of his poems – the unforgettable and the forgettable – until you find the ones that you will probably return to for the rest of your life.
Cornered did that for me, so I thought I’d share it with you…
well, they said it would come to
this: old. talent gone. fumbling for
hearing the dark
footsteps, I turn
look behind me…
not yet, old dog…
they sit talking about
me: “yes, it’s happened, he’s
“he never had a great deal, did
“well, no, but now…”
they are celebrating my demise
in taverns I no longer
I drink alone
at this malfunctioning
as the shadows assume
I fight the slow
lighting more cigarettes
it has been a beautiful
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