you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds
and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
pissed and
shitted
underwear
and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.
and those
bodies
in the dark
fat and
thin
and
bent
some
legless
armless
some
mindless
and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope
it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.
it's not
bearable.
you get
up
go out
walk the
streets
up and
down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back
up
the same
street
thinking
those men
were all
children
once
what has happened
to
them?
and what has
happened
to
me?
it's dark
and cold
out
here.
So raw and real. The world needs the ugly to written about beautifully; not always and not by everyone but it needs to be written.
Also, I have to say, Bukowski is hailed for many reasons, but one thing that I think goes unsung is that he is one of the few writers that really sees what our society does to men, I mean, men per se. Flophouse is a prime example. In thinking about it with any larger perspective, this is a horror show for a certain class of men who have simply been discarded like so much trash. Yes, it's gendered, it is an absence of care, of valuing. Homelessness, suicidality, addiction, crime, mental illness, deaths of despair, you name it, by a large margin disproportionately men. The total absence of hope. Those men were all children once.