Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Beach Goers


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)

4 comments:

  1. 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!

    -R

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  2. Rhonda,

    I would never have guessed. Bukowski? You have unsuspected weirdness and depth. Ho!

    w

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  3. Oh if you only knew how deep my weirdness goes... :)

    By the way, the last poem on my blog was not my Buk mood but my Isak mood.

    -R

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  4. 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????

    Anyway. 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?

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