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this or his protest against everything. a one man Freedom March that never squeezed in between the concert reviews and the baseball scores. God, or somebody, bless him. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 165 Submitted by .eve. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 166 We Ain't Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain call it the greenhouse effect or whatever Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 167 What A Writer what i liked about e.e. cummings was that he cut away from the holiness of the word and with charm and gamble gave us lines that sliced through the dung. how it was needed! how we were withering away in the old tired manner. of course, then came all the e.e. cummings copyists. they copied him then as the others had copied Keats, Shelly, Swinburne, Byron, et al. but there was only one e.e. cummings. of course. one sun. one moon. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 168 What Can We Do? at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity. some understanding and, at times, acts of courage but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't have too much. it is like a large animal deep in sleep and almost nothing can awaken it. when activated it's best at brutality, selfishness, unjust judgments, murder. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 169 Whats The Use Of A Title? 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. Anonymous submission. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 170 Who In The Hell Is Tom Jones? I was shacked with a Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 171 Working Out Van Gogh cut off his ear gave it to a prostitute who flung it away in extreme disgust. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 172 Writing often it is the only thing between you and impossibility. no drink, no woman's love, no wealth can match it. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 173 Yes Yes when God created love he didn't help most when God created dogs He didn't help dogs when God created plants that was average when God created hate we had a standard utility when God created me He created me when God created the monkey He was asleep when He created the giraffe He was drunk when He created narcotics He was high and when He created suicide He was low when He created you lying in bed He knew what He was doing He was drunk and He was high and He created the mountians and the sea and fire at the same time He made some mistakes but when He created you lying in bed He came all over His Blessed Universe. Submitted by .eve. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 174 Young in New Orleans starving there, sitting around the bars, and at night walking the streets for hours, the moonlight always seemed fake to me, maybe it was, and in the French Quarter I watched the horses and buggies going by, everybody sitting high in the open carriages, the black driver, and in back the man and the woman, usually young and always white. and I was always white. and hardly charmed by the world. New Orleans was a place to hide. I could piss away my life, unmolested. except for the rats. the rats in my dark small room very much resented sharing it with me. they were large and fearless and stared at me with eyes that spoke an unblinking death. women were beyond me. they saw something depraved. there was one waitress a little older than I, she rather smiled, lingered when she brought my coffee. that was plenty for me, that was enough. there was something about that city, though it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many others needed. it let me alone. sitting up in my bed the llights out, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 175 hearing the outside sounds, lifting my cheap bottle of wine, letting the warmth of the grape enter me as I heard the rats moving about the room, I preferred them to humans. being lost, being crazy maybe is not so bad if you can be that way undisturbed. New Orleans gave me that. nobody ever called my name. no telephone, no car, no job, no anything. me and the rats and my youth, one time, that time I knew even through the nothingness, it was a celebration of something not to do but only know. Charles Bukowski www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 176 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |