Best Bukowski Poems

Several times, too many to count 
I was suffering or bored and pulled his books out. 
I'd open one up to a random page
Begin to read and wave some green sage .

His words would clear all of my pain
Funny or wild and deeply insane .
They...

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A Chip Off the Old Bukowski Block  ©

i sit here on the toilet
looking at the cane by my side
when did this happen?

its pronged feet could, at any moment,
scamper into a tidal pool, so much does it
remind me of a robotic crab

my mornings now consist...

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Words should come from the soul 
Not just from a pen
That is what should be your goal
So says wise men
Many times there is too much effort put into writing
It should come naturally enough
There shouldn't be too much fighting
Just let the words flow through you
Like the...

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Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
He started with her head
Fiddled with her like finger food
Putty in his hands

Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend 
Slapped her hard upside the face
Now she likes it dirty
So this poets been replaced

I'd like to say so long Charlie
As far as I'm concerned
You...

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I started reading again
Bukowski
the lonesome, alcoholic bastard

I moved back into my parents house recently,
if only for a time.

And I started reading again
and drinking 
And then more drinking
and less reading 
Until I was drunk
every night
Watching TV and 
feeling real loathsome

My girlfriend and I aren't talking right...

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Was it said before? Sure.
Was it said this way? I doubt it.
Perspective is in no way obscure,
And his works are nothing without it.

His motivation’s observed in daily life,
Misery, not just some vague inspiration.
He begs for reason, some way to lessen strife;
His words reflect a resounding...

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I watched the blood flow
poetry dripping
coagulating in pools of misery
How could a genius be so careless?
Shaving away our humanity
filtering it through an inebriated brain
Poems in the thousands
orchestrated in the ordinary
Crushing
Truthful
yet not quite right
Genius exacts a toll

Somewhere beyond mirrored ideology
flashes the broken image of man
the smell...

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"The White Noise Bukowski" 

Dreams
are playing fields
where scenarios 
can be altered 
at the whim 
of the voyeur.

sometimes
“they” come to you 
in dreams
and your time 
is manipulated.
“they” reveal 

their messages.

soul to soul.
blue avians
like singing 
blue birds, 
they come anytime,
not just nightly nightingales.

they slip in, 
hovering over...

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-                                            ...

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Charles Bukowski Road Not Chosen
 
While reading Charles Bukowski poetry
On the metro ride home
Listening to Buddha bar music
On my oh too hip IPod
 
I begin to see myself as I was
Over 30 years ago when I was merely a bit player
A minor character in a...

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.
-The Last Straw-

Sometimes he went too far
Shunning the sunlight, wading into the dark
swimming in places the sun couldn't find
shifting the wind to suit his own fall
speeding through life with his back to the wall
where he'd spit in the eye, and bend all the rules
yet with...

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it's all your fault
that i got a rejection letter
the letters were wrong
and their order not right,
what was i thinking,
sending my thoughts out loud
to a Brit no less,
la di da
i digress
i just wasn't in proper dress
for the refusal,
metaphors all dressed up in 
red silk and stiletto...

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cyou ramble with his poetry
book after book
but you are not a rose,
you are not a thorn
neither virgin, nor the whore
of his better days
under neon lights
and the sweat of inspiration

crying with Orbison and Lang
the touch that caressed
you deep
in the psyche of
your human jungle

you its prey,

and you...

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the keys stick when I type,
the ink smudges on cheap paper,
there’s an old man in the corner
laughing through his dentures at my words.
he knows, I know—
it’s all garbage,
all of it.

writing the same worn-out lines,
spinning circles around rent checks
that will barely clear.
this morning, the phone rang,
and...

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they peel back my skin
like old wallpaper,
the stink rising
as the organs, bruised and bloated,
spill out like forgotten secrets.

the saw hums,
cutting through bone like butter,
the ribs cracking open
to a cold, fluorescent light
that never flinches.

the heart, heavy, useless now,
is weighed and tossed aside,
just another lump of meat
in...

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