murdered in the alley of the land frost-bitten against flagpoles pawned by females educated in the dark for the dark vomiting into plugged toilets in rented rooms full of roaches and mice no wonder we seldom sing day or noon or night the useless wars the useless years the useless loves and they ask us, why do you drink so much? well, I suppose the days were made to be wasted the years and the loves were made to be wasted. we can't cry, and it helps to laugh -- it's like letting out dreams, ideals, poisons don't ask us to sing, laughing is singing to us, you see, it was a terrible joke Christ should have laughed on the cross, it would have petrified his killers now there are more killers than ever and I write poems for them.
You can find this poem in Bukowski’s — Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame
Bukowski is the court jester of the deepest putrid depths, a shining light disguised as darkness and despair
This reflects a general sense of futility, unfulfilled desires, and escapism through alcohol. I can understand knowing many. 🙏