the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
Notes
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Comments
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just a thought. he has written just a thought. he doesnt say whether he is right or wrong (but actually in some of these lines, i think everyone can agree he hit it right on the head) his last lines of what fills, and what doesnt, is his perception and perspective, and it gives food for thought...not facts and answers. i could use a shot of whiskey right about now...
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I didn't like the enjambment in the end of the beginning, it seemed to not flow as well as the rest of the enjambments throughout the piece and it seemed, to me, that it was missing a word or two. Perhaps it was or perhaps it wasn't -- who knows, I could look but I am sure that's how it's written.
I found this to be somewhat calm, not melancholy calm but just calm, not happy calm, but calm -- content, I found this to be content.
A good piece that Bukowski has written here.
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