Read a poetry thread on Monkeyfilter, found some new poems, read some old, old ones in my portable hdd.

I do like Bukowski.

the sun
itself
knows
the sad truth of
how we surrendered
our lives
and deaths
to simple
ritual,
useless
craven
ritual,
and then
slinking away
from the face of
glory,
turning our dreams into
dung,
how we said
no, no, no, no,
to the most beautiful
YES
ever uttered:

life
itself.



Bukowski, Charles. "misbegotten paradise." Sifting through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way: New Poems. John Martin, ed. New York: Ecco, 2003.