Charles Bukowski — Hairy

The Hairy Hairy Fist and Love Will Die The dull haunches will sit in chairs and fart See the paper flowers, old women and lint Horse with broken leg Spider taking it in Wrinkles under bedpan chins Acromegalic diverticulitis [?] Your soul filled with mud and bats and curses And the hammers will go in, there will be the hairy hairy fists and love will die Love will stroke the balls of your worst enemy And your neck will ache and toilet paper will stick in your crotch And out the window, the same pictures of torture and murder and horror Cats with birds Cats with mice Dogs with cats Live men like ivory needing a shave And the petulant and nasty children of the universe Stealing, climbing, planning, cutting, warring All so healthy, all so strong Ah, your soul will feel so bad that the saliva will run from your mouth in cup fulls Patches of paint and sores will appear on your face and under your arms And sleep will be the last thing they will let you have Men you could trust will fade like children's drawings Your wife will hate you Your child will ignore you Your boss will fire you The police will jail you And there'll be no bottom The soul will fall like a wounded bird of paradise into the most horrible stinking swill of shit And still, no death Still no death you will fail at death too And there will not even be the peace of isolation, the final grey-black cellar Just more hammers, more saws, more engines More bad music, more relaxed voices of zero You'll be ripped up and down until your clothing no longer fits you You'll be the scarecrow, the rag, the smiling rag of a thing And the enemy, which is everyone, will appear beautifully clothed Calm, smiling, driving smooth rolls of shining steel And the sun will fall upon them like a flower Your soul will feel so bad, that you know it will not ever quite live again And there'll be nothing you can do Drink will not patch you Prayer will not save it Praise from the enemy will not heal it Nothing will work Nothing will be nothing like a harp with broken strings in somebody's corner in somebody's misery garbage While all around, like the fourth of July Like betting with a virgin, like champagne over the head of easy wildness The force of other things and other ways will celebrate the occasion Their existence without few