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 had a way of making me smile
Which no other anecdote worked meanwhile.
In poetry classes that I took at night
In Hollywood where the lights shown so bright.
I used one of his poems as my homework
The class would go crazy, acting bezerk.
His simple everyday themes splashed on the page
Easy to understand no matter your age.
Told stories that could lull you to sleep
When a period would end it was silent, no peep.
So it's safe for me to say that Bukowski rocks!
A modern day poet with outlandish plots
Never a dull poem I've read
I've always kept his books next to my bed.
GENIUS
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 of pills, shuffling
to the next room to pour cereal
then work up a **** before I can
leave the house
When did this happen?
bodily functions take priority as
I can no longer trust this body not
to embarrass me in public
when did this happen?
my knees are shot to hell
my bowels rumble and twist
my arthritis tears at me with sharp little teeth
my vision is perfect, cataracts
blasted away by another robot
when did this happen?
the other day my mind went on a holiday
leaving me behind, confused and blank,
frightened
is this a harbinger of what’s to come
when did this happen?
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 can hit the literary highway
Never to return
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
And showed her a good time
As I'm watching from the shallow end
Of my kiddie pool of simple rhyme
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
Chewed her up then spit her out
Now that good for nothing Charlie
Is all she talks about
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 greatest of rushing rivers
The end result I promise you will deliver shivers
Down the spine of the reader
And that is what you want
For your words to be remembered
For yours to be the words that haunt
Writing should be for writing's sake
Not for the sake of any others
Although it is nice to hear the opinion of your brothers
But just remember that writing should come from deep inside
And if it does then pride in yourself will never be denied
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 I thought it was hope—
turned out to be another
rejection letter in a different voice.
I’m smoking old cigars
that burn the fingers but not the mind,
drinking coffee cold as winter in a can,
wondering how I ended up here,
writing just to keep the lights on.
and that goldfish,
it’s still there—
belly-up in its bowl,
not even a bubble left
to prove it ever lived.
I haven’t flushed it.
I’ll keep it as a reminder,
that we all float for a while
before sinking.
the landlord knocks again,
the ashtray overflows.
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 now,
but I am writing this
I guess one could call that progress.
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 a world that’s always hungry
for the next hollow thing.
looking down on what's left of me,
I turn in dicust
having to do this sll over again.
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 desperation.
There seems a need at times to clarify,
But that’s allowed in his terms only;
So many thoughts seem somewhat ‘rarefied’,
Fed his fire, but made him lonely.
No ‘underachiever’, not just another fool,
But still seeking solace by the glass;
Tempering his stagger and his drool
With just a bit of ‘kiss my ass.’
But, usually, genius ‘sots’ come to ground,
Lucid moments - on the square;
Their driving ‘bolts’ of genius, word or sound,
Only written because they dare.
Yes, you can feel the written “heart”,
But few of us can realize that sort of pain;
No isolated misery… of many lives a part,
Each begs an answer... “Who’ll stop the rain?”
Yes, he’s lived it, seen it, and told it well;
But Timing is the Master of one’s Fate.
Is the timing right? Funny…only time will tell…
Will you will be a whining sot or dare to be great?
One success can be lucky, we’ve seen that before.
One book, one song, then quietly fade away.
But six novels later, we should know the score;
He must have had something to say.
So, at the perfect time, someone heard.
Someone who was “someone” took someone under wing.
And to those with interest and empathy, they sold his words;
Saying they “are genius” and with “ugly truth” they ring.
But did he create any redeeming changes or impacts?
Yes, what singular influence did all his artful whining bring?
None... just a relentless, repetitive diatribe of sad facts.
Oh, yes…..and a little “ching ching”.
Entered in the "Idiot or Genius" contest 27 March 2014
not so genius
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 of whiskey
loose women
one night lays
Lonely is as lonely does
Sticks poked into blind eyes
bones cracking like porcelain vases
adorning the altar of an enigmatic fool
Are we trapped?
Are we idiots?
Do we drink from the well of insignificance?
He sits alone in an empty room
Thinking
Yes Thinking
Until he thinks us out of existance
Yet somehow
Thankfuly
We are still here
Not so Genius
Brilliant none the less. His story is sad but his poetry is riviting.
I enjoyed this contest, facinating person of whom I was not familiar.
"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 your
secret time,
singular or plural.
there is always
some ulterior meaning
in the rhyme,
in which they
turn your channel on,
express themselves
to you, Bukowski -
they visit you,
in the white noise.
the blues bring it on.
tall whites whisper
in your glazed glass mind.
visions not nearly clear,
seen for what they
really mean.
levels of descent
are freedom of will.
mistakes and errors
are necessary,
for novitiates
to elevate.
what’s the point
of the make, if not?
shades light and dark
blend complimentary
taken to shape,
the elongated decisions
for you.
you sometimes hesitate,
you sometimes wake,
before the message
comes in clearer to you,
breaks the forward way, for you;
when you’re
the one holding the key
to the gate, in dreams -
'tis your choice
to turn ignition on,
salute ignorance
turn your back
on what was,
take the risk to
dive off boards you
walk daily
in repeating grooves,
change up to 5
targa gears.
transition rough
or smooth;
warp speed
recommended,
for successful
take off.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
gvlm
"Above the vault over their heads
was what looked like a throne of lapis lazuli,
and high above on the throne was a figure
like that of a man.
I saw that from what appeared to be his waist up
he looked like glowing metal, as if full of fire,
and that from there down he looked like fire;
and brilliant light surrounded him.
Like the appearance of a rainbow
in the clouds on a rainy day,
so was the radiance around him."
merkaba.
"Blue Bird", Bukowski.
- you dirt dog You dirt dog
grimy as they get
Heiny in each hand
one from the ice box
other from the brothel
Slouching slurring
so clear you speak
filtered through the old typewriter
your "Baldwin" or your "Steinway"
Love really is a dog from hell
Play it again "Chopin Bukowski"
Your poetic piano masterpiece!
: a tribute to Charles Bukowski HERE'S a Link to the BUK Sculpture:
and Linda Kings Sculpture of
this great American poet http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.bukowski-gesellschaft.de/pix/art71linda-1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://bukowski.net/forum/index.php%3Fthreads/bukowski-bust.45/&usg=__5cQH_14jh2_Tyw5KpTdQJdvq7x0=&h=540&w=744&sz=76&hl=en&start=32&zoom=1&tbnid=ebDaiH5RBcXZrM:&tbnh=154&tbnw=201&ei=M7m4TeqlHc7b4wb1ttDfDw&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dlinda%2Bking%2Bbukowski%2Bsculpture%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26hs%3Dfwa%26sa%3DX%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26biw%3D1120%26bih%3D518%26tbm%3Disch0%2C6930%2C693&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=820&vpy=215&dur=481&hovh=191&hovw=264&tx=188&ty=92&page=3&ndsp=11&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:32&biw=1120&bih=518
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 Charles Bukowski poem
A wild young underemployed intellectual
Hanging out in dismal bars and dives all over Asia and California
Hanging with disreputable women and drunks and drinkers
And characters out of his kinds of haunts
A mad poet bard of the underground
A drunken poet in a drunken bum show
That nightly played in his head
Then one day I met the women of my dreams
And went down a different path
A long slow path to respectability
And now 30 years later
I am no longer a wild man
I am still a poet at heart
But I am now also a bureaucrat
In a button down suite
Doing the people's business
Working for the Government
I've become the Man
Sometimes I wonder
Would I have been better off
Going down that another path
Would I have ended up
Somewhere else
Doing something else
Would I have been as happy
Would I have been as successful?
There is no answer that satisfies
The longing in my heart
For that wild thing
That still lurks beneath
It's civilized cover
And I know that I am still
A mad poet at heart
Railing against the injustice of the world
As I work day by day in the belly of the great beast of State
I recall the ancient Chinese saying,
"Confucian during the day while Taoist rebel at night"
Playing out in my head and nightly dreams
In the true American Upper class patrician tradition
I close the book and look out the window
Get off the train, and walk slowly home
And realize I had no choice
But to take the path that I’ve trodden on
And so I put aside my misgivings
And say goodbye to my "Bukowskian"desires
For another night of domestic contentment
Was it worth it all to take the conventional path
And not take the bohemian road to hell and back
I look at my wife and realize
I had no choice, had no choice
But to follow her to the ends of the earth
And beyond by her side as we walked our path
Of shared destiny
Goodbye Charles Bukowski wherever you are
May I meet you in a bar in the next life
And figure out where we should have gone
Until then the drinks are on me.
.
-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 something to find, that was not of this world
spilling his guts
wading through fog, feeling the chill
unfurled in a dream
that was seen through a glass
while he looked for asylum in the black of the night
Boomerang words were like bats out of hell
to dwell in the mind and rattle the bones
of someone with soul, who feels all alone
changing their world from the outside in
Students mull over his words, taking sides
A skate on thin ice
Some call it nice........some call it sludge
slugging it out, from opposite sides
Some can't decide........ some claim to hate it
Fate has a name. Genius I'd say
Some of us stumble, and tumble right in
_________________________________
For Contest Sponsored By Amy Green 4/7/14
Genius
Resubmitted for PD's Contest: 101 in a Row #14
9/16/16
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 heels,
my panties in a bunch
in your pocket
Buk,
you've always told me the
truth,
shall i order hot dogs smothered
with onions and sauerkraut
from the vendor down Lorain Street
and write poetry on the napkin
i wipe with
send it, sealed with a kiss?
the eagle of my heart breaks
into its sojourn, and here i am
feeling like pay dirt, the sky
thunders, i think it's going to rain.
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 build another empire
in the dust of your involution,
exhaling the animal instinct of a poem
you are its flame, but never quite
catch on fire
dirty dishes speak on your behalf
half-smoked
cigarettes stare vacantly into your eyes,
wine-stained sheets mix with
the semen of discontent,
the tenderness
of his poem,
escaping...
don't bother me with the logic of precision
just now,
don't look into my weaknesses:
your lacerations have disaffected
any meaning;
my residual defenses
and your "abstract" poetry
gnaw
my barefoot goddess image
like rats on an outing, like a chain
gang
don't let the cat out of the bag:
take my picture from your frame,
it's ten miles to the finish line and
one thousand and one feet from the edge,
I'm not finished reading
my headstone, my epitaph
blurs in the distance.
summer leaves are falling into the
missionary position,
somewhere a lotus blossom opens
and a newborn baby cries,
rivers flow into the wellspring
of what poems offer:
the unlikelihood of courage.