no God in Bukowski

there is no God
in Bukowski
like there are
no more drugs

howling pangs
of bawdy thoughts
breed silent - 0
once again.

man's beauty
is his beast
he is starving now
in the cold

dark isolation
pleasure's tomb
desolation : discontent
the brood of creativity
making myth in mind -

those blinking lights
cannot be seen
from the desert
of death

"kill the body
and the head will die ..

"here's mud
in your big red-eye ..

"he-who-makes
a beast-of-himself
gets rid-of-the-burden
of being-a-man ..

"he who
is not
angry is not
l i v i n g .. "

thus spake the epitath
as a child is born . . .

and only now
in the setting sun
I realize this,
the nature of life
is often cruel
but always worthy
of the living only

dead men do no walking
in these fields
and poems do not write
themselves