_

people choose to forget rather than forgive,

they choose to believe the bad before then good.

They choose to grudge about the mistakes,

then pay tribute to the good times.

They will replace the absence of love

with alliance of your enemy,

or at the hands of a stranger.

They forget the hope and promises,

drown them in alcohol and piss on em'.

Weak souls seek comfort in the illusion of deception,

false tainted realities into an abstract database of whores.

Click the window to their soul seeking desperation at the lonely cocks

at the other end of the electronic string and cup.

Intangible nature make a lustful nature,

in this visual world which lies on the dermis of concealed frosted skin.

Run into her arms, she will stab you in the flesh wound I started...

("People are not good to each other"- Bukowski)

__________

THE CRUNCH

__________

Too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers

strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving wine bottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about
it.

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
"no."

-Charles Bukowski