The Pleasures of the Damned by Charles Bukowski


the pleasures of the damned

are limited to brief moments

of happiness:

like the eyes in the look of a dog,

like a square of wax,

like a fire taking the city hall,

the county,

the continent,

like fire taking the hair

of maidens and monsters;

and hawks buzzing in peach trees,

the sea running between their claws,


drunk and damp,

everything burning,

everything wet,

everything fine.

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