Charles Bukowski

poems:

15

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 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.

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