Charles Bukowski
in the winter walking on my
ceiling my eyes the size of streetlamps.
I have 4 feet like a mouse but
wash my own underwear—bearded and
hungover and a hard-on and no lawyer. I
have a face like a washrag. I sing
love songs and carry steel.
 
I would rather die than cry. I can’t
stand hounds can’t live without them.
I hang my head against the white
refrigerator and want to scream like
the last weeping of life forever but
I am bigger than the mountains.
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