Charles Bukowski
Decline
naked along the side of the house, 8 a. m., spreading sesame seed oil Over my body, Jesus, have I come To this? I once battled in dark alleys for a Laugh. Now I’m
Eat Your Heart Out
I’ve come by, she says, to tell you That this is it. I’m not kidding, it’s Over. this is it. I sit on the couch watching her arrange Her long red hair before my
It's Ours
there is always that space there Just before they get to us That space That fine relaxer The breather While say Flopping on a bed Thinking of nothing Or say Pouring a glass of
My First Affair With That Older Woman
when I look back now At the abuse I took from Her I feel shame that I was so Innocent, But I must say She did match me drink for Drink, And I realized
Are You Drinking?
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook out again I write from the bed as I did last year. will see the doctor, Monday. “yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head- aches and my back
Confession
waiting for death Like a cat That will jump on the Bed I am so very sorry for My wife She will see this Stiff White Body Shake it once, then Maybe Again “Hank!”
Writing
often it is the only Thing Between you and Impossibility. No drink, No woman’s love, No wealth Can Match it. Nothing can save You Except Writing. It keeps the walls From Failing. The hordes
Here I Am
drunk again at 3 a. m. at the end of my 2nd bottle Of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of Poesy An old man Maddened for the flesh of
The Icecream People
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle And now the pecker stands up Better. However, things change overnight Instead of listening to Shostakovich and Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke The nights
True
one of Lorca’s best lines Is, “agony, always Agony…” Think of this when you Kill a Cockroach or Pick up a razor to Shave Or awaken in the morning To Face the Sun.
40,000
at the track today, Father’s Day, Each paid admission was Entitled to a wallet And each contained a Little surprise. Most of the men seemed Between 30 and 55, Going to fat, Many of
O, We Are The Outcasts
ah, christ, what a CREW: More Poetry, always more P O E T R Y. If it doesn’t come, coax it out with a Laxative. get your name in LIGHTS, Get it up there
How Is Your Heart?
during my worst times on the park benches in the jails or living with whores I always had this certain contentment- I wouldn’t call it happiness- it was more of an inner balance that
I'm In Love
she’s young, she said, But look at me, I have pretty ankles, And look at my wrists, I have pretty Wrists O my god, I thought it was all working, And now it’s her
Cows In Art Class
good weather Is like Good women- It doesn’t always happen And when it does It doesn’t Always last. Man is More stable: If he’s bad There’s more chance He’ll stay that way, Or if