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here I am
   in the ground
              my mouth
              open
              and
I can’t even say
              mama,
              and
the dogs run by and stop and piss
on my stone; I get it all
except the sun
and my suit is looking
bad
and yesterday
              the last of my left
arm gone
very little left, all harp-like
without music.
 
at least a drunk
in bed with a cigarette
might cause 5 fire
                engines and
                33 men.
I can’t
     do
        any
              thing.
but p.s.—Hector Richmond in the next
tomb thinks only of Mozart and candy
caterpillars.
    he is
              very bad
                       company.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...



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