POET CHARLES BUKOWSKI'S BIRTHDAY
If fantastic urban poet Charles Bukowski hadn't died, he would be 90 years old today (16 August).
I have a large print of him above my fireplace and love almost everything he did. Not many of us could bust our balls well into our midlife, hauling heavy sacks as a job or being unemployed, yet fire out dozens of beautiful poems a day from under the one or two lightbulbs we have. To date women less than half our age in groping, torrid affairs full of bubbling energy. But then to go on and finally make it, to get a home in Beverly Hills and then be buried in a Buddhist funeral that seems to be mocked by the disoder of our particularly crazy life.
Here's one of his hundreds of good poems:
My Groupie
I read last Saturday in the
redwoods outside of Santa Cruz
and I was about 3/4's finished
when I heard a long high scream
and a quite attractive
young girl came running toward me
long gown & divine eyes of fire
and she leaped up on the stage
and screamed: "I WANT YOU!
I WANT YOU! TAKE ME! TAKE
ME!"
I told her, "look, get the hell
away from me."
but she kept tearing at my
clothing and throwing herself
at me.
"where were you," I
asked her, "when I was living
on one candy bar a day and
sending short stories to the
Atlantic Monthly?"
she grabbed my balls and almost
twisted them off. her kisses
tasted like shitsoup.
2 women jumped up on the stage
and
carried her off into the
woods.
I could still hear her screams
as I began the next poem.
mabye, I thought, I should have
taken her on stage in front
of all those eyes.
but one can never be sure
whether it's good poetry or
bad acid.
If fantastic urban poet Charles Bukowski hadn't died, he would be 90 years old today (16 August).
I have a large print of him above my fireplace and love almost everything he did. Not many of us could bust our balls well into our midlife, hauling heavy sacks as a job or being unemployed, yet fire out dozens of beautiful poems a day from under the one or two lightbulbs we have. To date women less than half our age in groping, torrid affairs full of bubbling energy. But then to go on and finally make it, to get a home in Beverly Hills and then be buried in a Buddhist funeral that seems to be mocked by the disoder of our particularly crazy life.
Here's one of his hundreds of good poems:
My Groupie
I read last Saturday in the
redwoods outside of Santa Cruz
and I was about 3/4's finished
when I heard a long high scream
and a quite attractive
young girl came running toward me
long gown & divine eyes of fire
and she leaped up on the stage
and screamed: "I WANT YOU!
I WANT YOU! TAKE ME! TAKE
ME!"
I told her, "look, get the hell
away from me."
but she kept tearing at my
clothing and throwing herself
at me.
"where were you," I
asked her, "when I was living
on one candy bar a day and
sending short stories to the
Atlantic Monthly?"
she grabbed my balls and almost
twisted them off. her kisses
tasted like shitsoup.
2 women jumped up on the stage
and
carried her off into the
woods.
I could still hear her screams
as I began the next poem.
mabye, I thought, I should have
taken her on stage in front
of all those eyes.
but one can never be sure
whether it's good poetry or
bad acid.
viking:
