Charles Bukowski


The illusion is that you are simply reading this poem. The reality is that this is more than a poem. This is a beggar's knife. This is a tulip. This is a soldier marching through Madrid. This is you on your death bed. This is Li Po laughing underground. This is not a god-damned poem. This is a horse asleep. A butterfly in your brain. This is the devil's circus. You are not reading this on a page. The page is reading you. Feel it? It's like a cobra. It's a hungry eagle circling the room. This is not a poem. Poems are dull, they make you sleep. These words force you to a new madness. You have been blessed, you have been pushed into a blinding area of light. The elephant dreams with you now. The curve of space bends and laughs. You can die now. You can die now as people were meant to die: Great, victorious, hearing the music, being the music, roaring, roaring, roaring.

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