The Mattress Grave

by 

Heinrich Heine 

Death, it is but the long, cool night, 

And Life's a dull and sultry day. 
It darkens; I grow drowsy; 

I am weary of the light. 

Over my bed a strange tree gleams 

And there a nightingale is loud. 

She sings of love, love only . . . 
I hear it, even in dreams. 

My Mouche, the other day as I lay here, 

Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave...

2 p.m. beer

by Charles Bukowski

 

nothing matters
but flopping on a mattress

with cheap dreams and a beer

 

as the leaves die and the horses die

and the landladies stare in the halls;
brisk the music of pulled shades, 

 

a last man's cave
in an eternity of swarm
and explosion;

nothing but the dripping sink,
the empty bottle,
euphoria,

youth fenced in,
stabbed and shaven,

taught words
propped up
to die.