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 not laughing.
I splash myself with oil and wonder,
how many years do you want?
how many days?
my blood is soiled and a dark
angel sits in my brain.
things are made of something and
go to nothing.
I understand the fall of cities, of
nations.
a small plane passes overhead.
I look upward as if it made sense to
look upward.
it’s true, the sky has rotted:
it won’t be long for any of
us. 

(Source: poemhunter.com)

a very miraculous thing just happened:

my beerbottle flipped over backwards

and landed on its bottom on the floor,

and I have set it upon the table to foam down,

but the photos were not so lucky today

and there is a small slit along the leather

of my left shoe, but it’s all very simple:

we cannot acquire too much: there are laws

we know nothing of, all manner of nudges

set us to burning or freezing; what sets

the blackbird in the cat’s mouth

is not for us to say, or why some men

are jailed like pet squirrels

while others nuzzle in enormous breasts

through endless nights—this is the

task and the terror, and we are not

taught why. still, it’s lucky the bottle

landed straightside up, and although

I have one of wine and one of whiskey,

this foretells, somehow, a good night,

and perhaps tomorrow my nose will be longer:

new shoes, less rain, more poems.

the wind blows hard to night
and it’s a cold wind
and I think about
the boys on the row.
I hope some of them have a bottle
of red.

it’s when you’re on the row
that you notice that
everything
is owned
and that there are locks on
everything.

this is the way a democracy
works:
you get what you can,

try to keep that
and add to it
if possible.

this is the way a dictatorship
works too
only they either enslave or
destroy their
derelicts.

we just forget
ours.

in either case
it’s a hard
cold
wind.

The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski

(Source: plagiarist.com)

another bed
another women

more curtains
another bathroom
another kitchen

other eyes
other hair
other
feet and toes.

everybodys looking.
the eternal search.

you stay in bed 
she gets dressed for work
and you wonder what happened
to the last one
and the one after that…
it’s all so comfortable-
this love making
this sleeping together
the gentle kindness…

after she leaves you get up and use her 
bathroom,

it’s all so intimate and strange.
you go back to bed and 
sleep another hour.

when you leave its with sadness
but you’ll se her again
whether it works or not.
you drive down to the shore and sit
in your car. it’s almost noon.

-another bed, other ears, other
ear rings, other mouths, other slippers, other
dresses

colors, doors, phone numbers.

you were once strong enough to live alone.
for a man nearing sixty you should be more
sensible.

you start the car and shift,
thinking, I’ll phone Jeanie when I get in,
I haven’t seen her since Friday.

some people
grind away
making their
unhappiness
the ultimate
factor
of their
existence
until
finally
they are
just
automatically
unhappy,
their
suspicious
upset
snarling
selves
grinding

on
and
at 
and 
for 
and 
through

their only 
relief 
being

to meet 
another
unhappy 
person

or 
to 
create 
one

my father had memorized many sayings that he liked to 
repeat over and over: 
“if you can’t succeed, suck eggs!” 
“my country, right or wrong!” 
“early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, 
wealthy and wise!” 

my mother just smiled as he mouthed these 
pearls of wisdom. 
me? 
I thought, this man is a fool. 

“any man who wants a job can get one!” was one 
of his favorites during the Depression years. 

almost everything he said was stupid. 

he called my mother “mama.” 
“mama, we gotta move out of this neighborhood!” 
“why, daddy?” 
“because I saw one, mama!” 
“one what, daddy?” 
“a nigger…”  

another one of his favorites was: 
“eenie, meanie, miney, mo, catch a nigger by the 
toe, if he hollers make him pay, 50 dollars every 
day!” 

he never voiced these aphorisms while sitting down 
but always while marching smartly about the 
house. 

“God helps those who help themselves!” 
“you listen to your father, Henry,” my mother would 
tell me. 
that poor woman, she meant it. 

“don’t do as I do,” he’d shout, “but do as I 
say!” 

I ended up doing neither. 
and the day I looked down at him in his 
coffin 
I almost expected him to say something 
but he didn’t so I spoke up for 
him: 
“dead men tell no more tales.” 

thank Christ, I had heard enough. 
then 
they closed the lid and my uncle Jack and 
I went out for hamburgers and fries. 

we sat there with the food in front of us. 
“your father was a good man,” Uncle Jack 
said. 

“Jack,” I replied, “good for what?” 

icarusairlines:

“If I’m an ass, I should say so. If I don’t, somebody else will. If I say it first, that disarms them.”

switterbeet:

Back in December, I read my first ever full work/collection by Bukowski. I first discovered him online (if we covered him in any of my English classes, I don’t remember) and fell in love with the pieces I’d seen quoted. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on one of his works. I chose Mockingbird Wish Me Luck because I knew it contained the poem I liked best so far, “Making It.” I adore the line “just make it, babe, make it” so so so much. I’d like to get a tattoo of it someday. Upon reading more, though, I found I also really dig “The Colored Birds.” I found it very powerful and moving. I don’t typically care too much for poetry, but I absolutely enjoyed these.  I will definitely be getting more Bukowski immediately if not sooner, I’m thinking of trying one of his novels next.

Be Kind

Charles Bukwoski

The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993

we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.

one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.

but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.

not their fault?

whose fault?
mine?

I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life

among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives

is.

(Source: beyourmirror89)

(Source: spiraltrap)

(Source: whereyoubin)

(Source: whereyoubin)