Illegal alien.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere;

they say I am wrong;
they say I don't belong,
but all paths must meet
in the end.

I've been on the road
for most of my life;
looking for any place
that'll take me;
any place that'll take me -
any place I can lay down my strife.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold and on my own.
most of my family's dead;
the rest have mostly flown.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold
and all alone.
All alone.

All is not well
where I'm from;
It doesn't seem that much better
elsewhere.

But you could change my story;
there must be good people
out there.

I don't have much clothing,
but I'm willing to work.
Don't turn me away
because you feel you've been hurt.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere.

I can't speak all that well,
but I am strong.
My dignity is not
for sale.

Just because you've lived here
longer than I
doesn't mean you can commit me,
commit me to die.

I am a being.
I have a heart.
You have no right
to tear it apart.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

City of Immigrants.

An ode to reckless teenage bravado.

You're the victim of
Fear in vanity's clothing.
But I still
Want you,
And need you,
And adore you;

Even though you might
One day
Become
A supernova;

But, I'm secure
In the knowledge that
You'll never
Collapse
Into a
Black hole.

Kick up the leaves,
And curse the heavens
For being too perplexing;
But one day
You'll know them
Like your palms,
And psalms,
And everything else in your dreams.

Funeral.

Crying at a funeral
For no particular reason,
Other than the heavy sense of
Grief and
Similar watered eyes.

We all cry the same;
Though in different moments
And shades;
Some tears are kept inside
And lubricate us,
Tempting us to fall apart
Like frantic machines.

Crying at a funeral,
For no other reason
Than respect:
A poor and facile reason
That any cheap conjuror
Can tease
From water-ready eyes.

Crying at a funeral
Because I would like
To have known you
And loved you
Like your dearest;

But I never did.
And I never will.
So I sigh,
But my eyes don't become moist
With tears
That have no place,
Or bearing
Within my soul.

I'm sorry,
But sometimes the dead
Die quietly,
And the living
Have quiet thoughts,
That cannot be placed
And so live
In suspended animation;

But somewhere,
Real tears are shed for you;
Tears that began on the day of
Creation;
Tears that will run for ever,
Weeping at the beauty,
And banality,
And wonder,
And futility of it all;

Tears that run through us all,
And prompt us to remember
That one day,
We will die so pointlessly -
Like you -
After living under the
Hammers of others,
And a boundless night sky.

No matter.

No matter how obscene you think it -

no matter how crazy they say it might be -

a crazy thought is not the preserve

of a crazy mind

or a violent sea.

A thought is all yours:

an expression of you;

and it matters not that others tell you

that you're a fruit

or cuckoo.

Don't worry on keeping quiet

or keeping your thoughts within;

your thoughts are for you -

they're not for others' whims.

They say that it's 'random',

but that's such a facile word.

The only thing that's random

is that their aims are so absurd

as to try to shut you up;

as to try to dumb you down;

and put you in a suit,

and cavort you about town -

like a monkey on a string,

or a child with a noose;

or some colourless thing,

like a dead and lame goose.

No matter what they say;

no matter what they do;

your tomorrow is today,

and you

are you,

are you.

Hate.

Can you feel the hate
Swirling within you?
You mask it as 'humour'.

One day,
It will turn you inside out
And swallow you whole.

And where you once were
There shall remain a heavy presence
That quickly goes unnoticed.

The teeth within you
Will develop an appetite
Whose calling can't be sated.

And so you will crease,
And fall in on yourself,
Like a neutron star in its death throes
In some uncared-for
Pocket of the universe.

Art.

Art is hidden
In the deepest cracks
And recesses
Of human experience.

Even after they're dead,
You'll still not look there.

Even after we're all dead,
There'll still be art there

You refuse to look there,
Because what you see
Might pull you in
And keep you there for ever.

How would it feel to be
Trapped with your
Reflection for ever?

All your guilt and sin and
Squirming pitifulness?
So you don't look there,
And it doesn't peer back into you.

But in your quietest moments,
Your mind skips over the ocean,
Suddenly descending into
Great holes in the Earth.

The truth.

Your patriotic attempts
at jingoism -
in all their couched and pathetic venom -
will not stir the
ignorance
within
my heart.

I will crush you
like you don't expect;
flags will wave,
but they will be covered in blood:
the blood of you,
and your children,
and your enemies,
and your children's enemies,
and those of conquered lands;

and the dead who've tried in vain to cease
the incessant marches of unreason,
and disdain for moral character.

I will put you under my foot
and crush you within your
Reichstags and temples,
and churches -
long before you even wish to burn them down yourselves,
and blame their destruction on foreign entities
with nefarious motivations.

I will not get rheumy-eyed
at the thought of
my country
and all of its honours -
mostly terrors in fancy clothing.

I will not tremble;
nor will I remain impassive.
I will shoot from my mouth
flames of truth
that can vaporise mountains
and put the fear of all desolation
into the eyes of tyrants,
and dragons,
and despots,
and monarchs -
and even God.

For the truth is my weapon,
and I wield it with pride;
indiscriminately.

Who knows? -
I might even be its next target.
But it will cut me down with glory -
and I will let it.
And it will be taken up by other
ne'er-shaking hands,
that will strike you dead
without spilling any of the bile that animates you.

Your flesh is for the whims of time -
the hourglass -
and the seagulls,
and your rabid friends,
who will weep at your demise,
after tearing you apart like the feeble dog you are.

And new life will blossom,
and be bruised,
and sour,
and steer from tranquility;
but maybe we can deter the next generation
from devouring your lies;
instead, digesting them fully,
and offering them to the earth,
in a thankful and even promise,
that flowers might grow in the most acid peat.

Like growth,
maggots thrive in the midst of decay.
But maggots die,
whilst change is present
in the nuances of each new burst of life.

A Poem is a City - a poem by Charles Bukowski (featured in 'The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills).

A poem is a city
a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter...
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows...

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world...

and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor's scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.

Listen.

Listen to me;
I'll listen to you.
I can see
Beauty in you.

Don't be afraid.
Don't run into the shade.
Come out and face the Sun.
The future is waiting
For you.

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

They put thoughts in your head;
Words in your mouth.
They advise you on how to think,
And in time it all goes south

And tumbles into the sea.
This is what might be.
They say: 'This is what will be
If your eyes fail to see.'

Don't say, my dear,
That there's nothing for you here;
Life shouldn't be some
Unrelenting menagerie.

I miss you.

I miss you.
Since you've been gone
I barely sleep;
Not even a wink.

Are you up there?
Oh, my childish imagination.
I long for cessation
Now.

I miss you.
The things you said
Made me.
Please don't unmake me.

I'm feeble.
I'll have to carry on this upheaval.

It's peaceful -
Since you've been gone.
I just gaze at dew and hear bird song.

And your voice
Echoes still in the hall.
I miss you.
Will you help me carry on?

Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
Will you help me to carry on?
I miss you.

The fire.

The fire never died;
The ember's still burning,
Deep inside.

The late 60s were real,
But they felt like a dream;
Peace is never as placid as it seems.

The fire never died;
It burns on still.
To get my trip I need music;
I don't need no pill.

I don't need no weed -
Although I find it helps.

The fire never died.
The pearl's still resting amongst the kelp.

Lord's prayer.

Dear God,
Lord and protector of all that is imaginary;
Lord of my dreams -
Of my imagination,
In the sky,
Eating the pie;
Wielding a huge glistening ball of unreason;
With the beard;
Please protect me from my sister,
And her relentless attempts to commandeer my laptop.

Dear God -
The sky God -
With the zombie son
(Who is also God, apparently;
Something about a godhead -
I dunno),
Please protect me from
Giant custard monsters
And other pretend creatures
Advocating bigotry, infanticide,
Genocide, slavery, rape, incest and
Prostitution -
Creatures like you.

Amen.

P.S. Please don't send the Holy Ghost to kill my children - I've done nothing to you, so stay out of my life, you egomaniacal, genocidal, megalomaniacal prick!

Snow.

How we treat you
like an unwanted guest;
shaking off our shoes
in jest of maintaining the sanctity
of our precious hallway carpets.

O, but once when
we bore smaller,
keener smiles
we danced with you;
and you danced in return,
like a jester plying for to receive our folly
In recognition.

So now,
the roads are thick
with grief
that has no place
in the heart.

The cars become stuck,
the people feel unstuck;
the people just sit in armchairs -
on sofas -
and wait for a time when
they can more happily wait,
and idle their days in warmer climes.

But the old,
though cold,
observe with both
joy and apprehension
the white blanket,
falling like old, crushed bones from Heaven.

One day,
I might dance with you.
I will fall and rise with you,
and maybe you will coat
what humus I make
with your winter will.

Kaleidoscopic mind breaking down into fractured colours (a portrait of a man in his final stages of dementia).

The Lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind
Is braking down

Into some sort of
Tapestry
Of pretty patterns
Wich I cant read;
Cant understand.

I tri to cry,
But feelings are nummed.
Where has my mind gon?

The lengf,
And breadf,
And hight
Of my mind,
Is becuming a singularity.

Everyfing I wunce new,
Wich was wunce blue,
Is now red,
And ritten
In a language I cant understand.

Im trapped
In a prison
Of my own constructshun.

Its not my falt.
Everyfing is ugly,
And becuming unreadable.
But the sky's still so beautyful.