Tag archive for "Charles Bukowski"

Poetry

Wednesday Poem of the Week: a threat to my immortality By Charles Bukowski

No Comments 08 January 2014

bukowski1
Charles Bukowski: a threat to my immortality

she undressed in front of me
keeping her pussy to the front
while I lay in bed with a bottle of
beer

where’d you get that wart on
your ass? I asked.

that’s no wart, she said,
that’s a mole, a kind of
birthmark.

that thing scares me, I said,
let’s call
it off.

I got out of bed and
walked into the other room and
sat on the rocker
and rocked.

she walked out. now, listen, you
old fart. you’ve got warts and scares and
all kinds of things all over
you. I do believe you’re the ugliest
old man
I’ve ever seen.

forget that, I said, tell me some more
about that
mole on your butt.

she walked into the other room
and got dressed and then ran past me
slammed the door
and was
gone.

and to think
she’d read all my books of
poetry too.

I just hoped she wouldn’t tell
anybody that
I wasn’t pretty.

Poetry

To the Poet Laureate of Skid Row Charles Bukowski.

No Comments 16 August 2013

Charles Bukowski was born on August 16th 1920 and The Shade would like to honor the Anniversary of the mans birth.

 

To The Whore Who Took My Poems by Charles Bukowski

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn’t you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I’m not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won’t be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there’ll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

 

Charles Bukowski worst Hang Over Story

Poetry

Wednesday Poem of the Week: Dinosauria, We by Charles Bukowski

No Comments 23 January 2013

Dinosauria, We by Charles Bukowski

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.

Poetry

Wednesday Poem of the week: Hemingway Never Did This by Charles Bukowski

No Comments 26 September 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hemingway Never Did This by Charles Bukowski

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can’t match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don’t think this 3-pager was immortal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it’s some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you’d like to
know?

if not, at least you’ve read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let’s hope so, for your sake
and
mine.


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