goldfish

my goldfish stares with watery eyes

into the hemisphere of my sorrow;

upon the thinnest of threads

we hang together,

hang hang hang

in the hangman’s noose;

I stare into his place and

he into mine…

he must have thoughts,

can you deny this?

he has eyes and hunger and

and his love too

died in January; but he is

gold, really gold, and I am grey

and it is indecent to search him out,

indecent like the burning of peaches

or the rape of children,

and I turn and look elsewhere

but I know that he is there behind me,

one gold goblet of blood,

one thing alone

hung between the reddest cloud

of purgatory

and apt. no. 303.

god, can it be

that we are the same?


- Charles Bukowski


Another of Bukowski's, one i love more but is not for prudish eyes:
The Shower


Listening to: Message To Bears 'Mountains'