The worst part of loneliness

is hope.

 

Hope for somebody to cure it – 

some magic creature with a perfect mind, body

soul

but thats a fiction or

it is not

real

loneliness – or deep or true loneliness

as if it is so easily pinned by by signs.

 

And what signs shine through?

certainly none better than a tunnel

through the brain

or the light through a rope

but then why bother upsetting people?

 

Bukowski felt it,

he was a coward too – the kind he railed about

with his mouth full of vomit

cheap wine and

the vulgar

taste of a run-down old tramp's vagina.