After the news of the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman this week, I thought this particular poem by Bukowski fitting. So many talented lives ended prematurely, accidental or otherwise.
What's The Use of a Title? - Charles Bukowski
They don't make it
the beautiful die in flame -
suicide pills, rat poison, rope what -
ever...
they rip their arms off,
throw themselves out of windows,
they pull their eyes out of the sockets,
reject love
reject hate
reject, reject.
they don't make it
the beautiful can't endure,
they are butterflies
they are doves
they are sparrows,
they don't make it.
one tall shot of flame
while the old men play checkers in the park
one flame, one good flame
while the old men play checkers in the park
in the sun.
the beautiful are found in the edge of a room
crumpled into spiders and needles and silence
and we can never understand why they
left, they were so
beautiful.
they don't make it,
the beautiful die young
and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.
lovely and brilliant: life and suicide and death
as the old men play checkers in the sun
in the park.
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