Alone with everyday.

Throughout the history of art, we’ve faced artists escaping excellently the reality and giving birth to illusions, delusions , wishes and desires, in their own perceptual unique way and forms.
Was it The Fear of having to do with reality that made them so talented?:) It could have taken less courage to drown on their own seas, then to simply face every day life, every day cruelty and absurdity.
Charles Bukowski never dealt with that fear.

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 will fill;
The madhouses will fill; the graveyards fill.

Nothing else fills.

Charles Bukowski  

2 Responses to “Alone with everyday.”

  1. One of my favorite poems.

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