I've fallen into a Charles Bukowski mood. It doesn't help things much, but it is good to know that someone had it worse than you.
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"What was the fascination of the beach? Why did people like the beach? Didn't they have anything better to do? What chicken-brained fuckers they were."
Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye (1982)
Yes, sometimes I am in a Bukowski mood as well...there is just something about him and his poetry that soothes me in an odd sort of way...I know that doesn't make much sense...but hey! it's been that kind of day!
ReplyDelete-R
Rhonda,
ReplyDeleteI would never have guessed. Bukowski? You have unsuspected weirdness and depth. Ho!
w
Oh if you only knew how deep my weirdness goes... :)
ReplyDeleteBy the way, the last poem on my blog was not my Buk mood but my Isak mood.
-R
Poor you. A new place for me to dump my poems. I admit it. I read all your blogs. I feel dirty. Not because of your blogs but because I feel like I shouldn't. But why the fuck do people write these things if they didn't want people to read them? I mean really do you write them for yourself????
ReplyDeleteAnyway. It is all Bobbie's fault. I tell him all the time.
I must have been in a Bukowski State of Mind Myself
Strange Love Song for a Ballast
on June 22. © All rights reserved
And so we will die. Ta ta ta dum. Which my sweetest stabilizer
will have no effect on the location of Xingu or the color of the tulips. Bukowski has already done it
Died. Rather humanly
leukemia 1994
San Pedro, California
his wife's tofu couldn't halt the cancer.
Such a lineage
Catullus, Wilmot, Villon, Rimbaud, cousin Genet.
how they spread their seed jerking off in every renegade corner
and the men and women that kneel to swallow –
still spitting the sour spunk. the teenage boys disguised as men. the women as poets.
no one can cloche a wordocean birthing
EVERYTHING IS PROSTITUTION
how I long to give you –
a quiet flock of words
a song
the crooked melody of this cock-eyed heart
its sharp beak stilled from the urge to bite
yet what arrives comes
with the urgency of a labor cramp –
the uncontrollable grunt and pant –
the emptying of the orphan love child long delayed by the primeval rhythms which must always play out
the passageway stretched by the universe of possibility
the pounding against the anvil
the unanswerable
who injects the unborn vein with soul?