beer shit

charles bukowski is kind of an asshole. he produced plenty of terrible poetry himself, not to mention the fact that he wrote the same novel over and over again. on the other hand, he is sort of a master of the 'rad scene.' but i cannot stand idly by while he drunkenly denounces no one in particular (except tolstoy i guess) and yet everyone all at once, while maintaining an appreciation for none other than the sight of his own beer shit floating, then escaping through the toilet bowel (although, what can i say, i do think that the way he describes it is lovely)

even though he's pissing me off right now, here's a nice (but devastating, sorry) poem by the man:

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody ever finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than 

flesh.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.