Barefoot, gingerly walking on the small, sharp rocks,
naked along the side of the house
8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil
over my body, Jesus, have I come
A small plane passes overhead;
I look upward as if it made sense to
I cry when it’s fashionable to laugh;
now I’m not laughing
Things are made of something and
go to nothing
I only did to you what the sparrow did to you
I hated you when it would have taken less courage to love
"back to the machine gun"
"As the sparrow"
*I chose Charles Bukowski because he is gritty, in your face and interesting.
You can see what he´s writing and he's just really damn good.