Charles Bukowski-Alone with everybody

Flesh covers the bone

and they put

brain and

Sometimes a soul

and the women

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

and nobody finds the one

but still

looking

bed

in bed

flesh covers

bone and

flesh searches for more meat.


there is no possibility:

we are all trapped

a destination

singular.


nobody ever finds the one.


slums are filled

landfills are filled

asylums are filled

the graveyards fill


nothing

fills.