Charles Bukowski
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there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace those who preach god, need god those who preach peace do not have peace those who preach peace do not have love beware the preachers beware the knowers beware those who are always reading books beware those who either detest poverty or are proud of it beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average
The Genius Of The Crowd
Let It Enfold You
either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing. I was hard as granite, I leered at the sun.
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.
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?
Hemingway Never Did This
Sunday, I am eating a grapefruit, church is over at the Russian Orthadox to the west. she is dark of Eastern descent, large brown eyes look up from the Bible then down. a small red and black Bible, and as she reads her legs keep moving, moving, she is doing a slow rythmic dance reading the Bible. . . long gold earrings; 2 gold bracelets on each arm, and it's a mini-suit, I suppose, the cloth hugs her body, the lightest of tans is that cloth, she twists this way and that, long yellow legs warm in the sun. . . there is no escaping her being there is no desire to. . . my radio is playing symphonic music that she cannot hear but her movements coincide exactly to the rythms of the symphony. . .
Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window
Question and Answer
"question and answer" he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer night, running the blade of the knife under his fingernails, smiling, thinking of all the letters he had received telling him that the way he lived and wrote about that-- it had kept them going when all seemed truly hopeless. putting the blade on the table, he flicked it with a finger and it whirled in a flashing circle under the light. who the hell is going to save me? he thought. as the knife stopped spinning the answer came: you're going to have to save yourself. still smiling, a: he lit a cigarette b: he poured another drink c: gave the blade another spin. --from The Last Night of the Earth Poems Homepages, Biographies, Bibliographies