Charles Bukowski's "this"

self-congratulatory nonsense as the famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness


you
wonder where
the real ones are


what
giant cave
hides them


as
the deathly talentless
how to
accolades


as
the fools are
fooled
again


you
wonder where
the real ones are
if there are
real ones.


this
self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions

centuries

this
is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless

it
churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope

it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street

more difficult
near
damnable

as
the famous gather to applaud their
seeming
greatness

as
the fools are
fooled
again

humanity
you sick
motherfucker.


This poem can be found in the excellent collection of Bukowski's works; "run with the hunted" a charles bukowski reader edited by John Martin.
Later,
Paul Parducci