Flophouse, by Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski

Flophouse

you haven’t lived

until you’ve been in a

flophouse

with nothing but one

light bulb

and 56 men

squeezed together

on cots

with everybody

snoring

at once

and some of those

snores

deep and

gross and

unbelievable—

dark

snotty

grosssubhuman

wheezings

from hell

itself.

your mind

almost breaks

under those

death—like

sounds

and the

intermingling

odors:

hard

unwashed socks

pissed and

shitted

underwear

and over it all

slowly circulating

air

much like that

emanating from

uncovered

garbage

cans.

and those

bodies

in the dark

fat and

thin

and

bent

some

legless

armless

some

mindless

and worst of

all:

the total

absence of

hope

it shrouds

them

covers them

totally.

it’s not

bearable.

you get

go out

walk the

streets

up and

down

sidewalks

past buildings

around the

corner

and back

the samestreet

thinking

those men

were all

children

once

what has happened

them?

and what has

happened

me?

it’s dark

and cold

out

here.

#Americans #XXCentury

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Charles Bukowski

Flophouse

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