Charles Bukowski, Poem for nobody
We are all museums of fear
2016. 42X30cm. India ink on white rag paper.
Without weight, volume, dimensions, OMEN Art Gallery, Chania
AS Gallery, Heraklion and ArtAthina 2016.
an apprehension for reality, the death of the flower,
the collapse of hope, the crush of
wasted years, the nightmare faces,
the mad armies attacking for no reason at all
old shoes abandoned in old corners like half-forgotten
voices that once said love but did not mean
see the face in the mirror? the mirror in the
wall? the wall in the house? the house in the
now always the wrong voice on the telephone
the hungry mouse with beautiful eyes which now lives in
the angry, the empty, the lonely, the
we are all
museums of fear.
as many killers as flies as
we dream of giant
sea turtles with strange words carved into
their hard backs
and no place for the knife to go in.
Cain was Able,
give us this day our daily dread.
the only solace left to us is to hide
alone in the middle of night in some deserted
with each morning less than zero,
humanity is a hammer to the brain,
our lives a bouquet of blood, you can watch
this fool still with his harmonica
playing elegiac tunes while
slouching toward Nirvana