Alone with everybody

The flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and sometimes a soul,

and the women break vases against the walls

and the men drink too much

and nobody finds the one

but keep looking

crawling in and out of beds.

 

Flesh covers the bone and the

Flesh searches for more than flesh.

there's no chance at all:

we are all trapped by a singular fate.

 

Nobody ever finds the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else fills.

 

Charles Bukowsky

Done