Charles Bukowski

Hello, How Are You?

This fear of being what they are: dead. At least they are not out on the street, they are careful to stay indoors, those pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets, their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter. Their ideal neighborhood of parked cars of little green lawns of little homes the little doors that open and close as their relatives visit throughout the holidays the doors closing behind the dying who die so slowly behind the dead who are still alive in your quiet average neighborhood of winding streets of agony of confusion of horror of fear of ignorance. A dog standing behind a fence. a man silent at the window.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0