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From December 17, 2013:

the poem of the empty bed

there is no deliverance.
there is an imagination of deliverance.
there is an angel of deliverance
but it has no wings.
there is no love.
there is an imagination of love.
one cares for what is not quite there
and when it leaves
it has no wings
it has no feet
but it leaves
even though it never really
arrived.
only the pain is real.
only the waste is real.
only the dripping of the faucet is real.
only the empty bed is real.
one must finally consider the real things:
most creatures are incapable of love.
almost every walking talking living creature is
incapable of love.
this not inconsiderate of them—
it is like asking them to have 3 eyes when
they only have 2.
it’s like asking them to have what they do no have:
frogs are frogs
dogs are dogs,
the mould is set.
to imagine another would love you
is to imagine that you have exceptional qualities
that others do not.
love is a form of selectivity
and the judgments of most people have long ago
gone awry
been sent numb and addled
by their existence—
by what they do to exist
by what makes them think they live
by what makes them think they love.
when you look at that empty bed
do not always consider it a defeat—
a sexual starvation, perhaps,
but there’s more room to stretch the legs
and the arms.
there’s room to consider and to think and to wait,
and if that one doesn’t arrive
any time and forever
realize that
doves need doves
crickets need crickets
swordfish need swordfish
fleas need fleas
hogs need pigs
pigs need hogs.
the river runs alone.
there is only one sun.
and sometimes alone
when the agony seems greater
than the guy-mind can bear
laughter arrives.
in small rooms
laughter arrives
you begin to laugh
the gift arrives
this laughter
and it runs up and down the walls
until you get tired and the walls
get tired
and then you sleep
and then you sleep
and sleep and sleep.

by Charles Bukowski

I don’t love you by John Whitehorse