Charles Bukowski

some say we should keep personal remorse from the

poem,

stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,

but jezus;

twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have

my

paintings too, my best ones; it's stifling:

are you trying to crash me out like the rest of them?

why didn't you take my money? they usually do

from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.

next time take my left arm or a fifty

but not my poems:

I am not Shakespeare

but sometime simply

there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;

there'll always be money and whores and drunkards

down to the last bomb,

but as Gos said,

crossing his legs,

I see where I have made plenty of poets

but not so very much

poetry.

the bulls are grand as the side of the sun

and although they kill them for the stale crowds,

it is the bull that burnes the fire,

and although there are cowardly bulls as

there are cowardly matadors and cowardly men,

generally the bull stands pure

and dies pure

untouched by the symbols or cliques or false loves,

and when they drag him out

nothing has died

something has passed

and the eventual stench

is the world.