disappearhere

This is one of the reasons why Charles Bukowski is fucking rad:

the souls of dead animals

afer the slaughterhouse
there was a bar around the corner
and I sat in there
and watched the sun go down
through the window,
a window that overlooked a lot
full of tall dry weeds.

I never showered with the boys at the plant
after work
so I smelled of sweat and blood.
the smell of sweat lessons after a while
but the blood-smell begins to fulminate
and gain power.

I smoked cigarettes and drank beer
until I felt good enough to board the bus
with the souls of all those dead
animals riding with me;
heads would turn slightly
women would rise and move away from me.

when I got off the bus
I only had a block to walk
and one stairway up to my room
where I'd turn my radio on and
light a cigarette
and nobody minded me
at all.