Dead Poets Society #3 Charles Bukowski: funhouse

funhouse by Charles Bukowski

I drive to the beach at night

in the winter

and sit and look at the burned-down amusement pier

wonder why they just let it sit there

in the water.

I want it out of there,

blown up,

vanished,

erased;

that pier should no longer sit there

with madmen sleeping inside

the burned-out guts of the funhouse . . .

it's awful, I say, blow the damn thing up,

get it out of my eyes,

that tombstone in the sea.

the madmen can find other holes

to crawl into.

I used to walk that pier when I was 8

years old.