Poetry Corner: Melancholia by Charles Bukowski

the history of melancholia

includes all of us. 

me, I writhe in dirty sheets

while staring at blue walls

and nothing. 

I have gotten so used to melancholia

that 

I greet it like an old 

friend. 

I will now do 15 minutes of grieving

for the lost redhead,

I tell the gods. 

I do it and feel quite bad

quite sad,

then I rise

CLEANSED

even though nothing 

is solved. 

that’s what I get for kicking 

religion in the ass. 

I should have kicked the redhead

in the ass

where her brains and her bread and

butter are

at … 

but, no, I’ve felt sad

about everything:

the lost redhead was just another

smash in a lifelong

loss … 

I listen to drums on the radio now

and grin.

there is something wrong with me

besides

melancholia.

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