murdered in the alleys of the land
frost-bitten against flagpoles
pawned by females
educated in the dark for the dark
vomiting into plugged toilets
in rented rooms full of roaches and mice
no wonder we seldom sing
day or noon or night
the useless wars
the useless years
the useless loves
and they ask us,
why do you drink so much?
well, I suppose the days were made
to be wasted
the years and the loves were made
to be wasted.
we can’t cry, and it helps to laugh—
it’s like letting out
dreams, ideals,
poisons
don’t ask us to sing,
laughing is singing to us,
you see, it was a terrible joke
Christ should have laughed on the cross,
it would have petrified his killers
now there are more killers than ever
and I write poems for them.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
