‘People As Flowers’ Charles Bukowski

such singing’s going on in the
streets –
the people look like flowers
at last

the police have turned in their
the army has shredded its uniforms and
weapons. there isn’t any need for
jails or newspapers or madhouses or
locks on the doors.

a woman rushes through my door
she screams.

she’s as beautiful as as a cigar
after a steak dinner. I
taker her.

but after she leaves
I feel odd
I lock the door
go to the desk and take the pistol
from the drawer. it has its own sense of
LOVE! LOVE! LOVE! the crowd sings in the

I fire through the window
glass cutting my face and
arms. I get a 12-year-old-boy
an old man with a beard
and a lovely girl something like a

the crowd stops singing to
look at me.
I stand in the broken window
the blood on my

“this,” I yell at them, “is in defense of the
poverty of self and in the defense of the freedom
not to love!”

“leave him alone,” somebody says,
“he is insane, he has lived the bad life for
too long.”

I walk into the kitchen
sit down and pour a
glass of whiskey.

I decide that the only definition of
Truth (which changes)
is that it is that thing or act or
belief which the crowd

there is a pounding at my
door. it is the same woman again.
she is as beautiful as finding a
fat green frog in the

I have 2 bullets left and
use them

nothing in the air but
clouds. nothing in the air but
rain. each man’s life too short to
find meaning and
all the books almost a

I sit and listen to them
I sit and listen to


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