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More poems by Charles BukowskiCharles Bukowski | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (3) | Books by Charles BukowskiBooks by Charles Bukowski

Consummation Of Grief

Charles Bukowski

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Added: 14 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 20 Nov 2017 9:24 PM | Viewed: 53517 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/140/ | Viewed on 20 November 2017.
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