Tribute To Charles Bukowski

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Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Mictlantecuhtli » Mon May 16, 2016 6:31 pm

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Last edited by Mictlantecuhtli on Mon May 16, 2016 6:38 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby The Eternal Warrior » Mon May 16, 2016 6:34 pm

Its ironic that his name is so close to bukkake because that's what his poetry reminds me of, a bunch of jizz on the throat of the world.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby The Golden Turd » Sat Jun 04, 2016 1:52 am

Only Bukkake video I ever liked was the Maria Ozawa video of her being a fake reporter. I generally don't care for a woman soaked in other men's sperm, especially several dozen.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Mr Reasonable » Sat Jun 04, 2016 7:41 am

That guy's teeth look like teeth that would be in a skeleton of a person who died years ago.
You see...a pimp's love is very different from that of a square.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Arcturus Descending » Thu Jul 21, 2016 6:48 pm

I like Bukowski's poetry


In 1986 Time called Bukowski a "laureate of American lowlife".[7] Regarding Bukowski's enduring popular appeal, Adam Kirsch of The New Yorker wrote, "the secret of Bukowski's appeal. . . [is that] he combines the confessional poet's promise of intimacy with the larger-than-life aplomb of a pulp-fiction hero."[8]



Let It Enfold You - Poem by Charles Bukowski

Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you

when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.

I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.

I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,
was continually being
evicted, jailed, in and
out of fights, in and out
of my mind.
women were something
to screw and rail
at, I had no male
friends,

I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
newspapers, museums,
grandmothers,
marriage, movies,
spiders, garbagemen,
english accents,spain,
france,italy,walnuts and
the color
orange.
algebra angred me,
opera sickened me,
charlie chaplin was a
fake
and flowers were for
pansies.

peace and happiness to me
were signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
and
addled
mind.

but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women-it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn't different

from the
others, I was the same,

they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
grievances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.

cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.

maybe the other life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.
or in mounting the
body of some poor
drunken female
whose life had
slipped away into
sorrow.

I could never accept
life as it was,
i could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenuous magic parts
open for the
asking.

I re formulated
I don't know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occurred.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
i no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,

I didn't have to prove
anything.

I began to see things:
coffee cups lined up
behind a counter in a
cafe.
or a dog walking along
a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse
on my dresser top
stopped there
with its body,
its ears,
its nose,
it was fixed,
a bit of life
caught within itself
and its eyes looked
at me
and they were
beautiful.
then- it was
gone.

I began to feel good,
I began to feel good
in the worst situations
and there were plenty
of those.
like say, the boss
behind his desk,
he is going to have
to fire me.

I've missed too many
days.
he is dressed in a
suit, necktie, glasses,
he says, 'I am going
to have to let you go'

'it's all right' I tell
him.

He must do what he
must do, he has a
wife, a house, children,
expenses, most probably
a girlfriend.

I am sorry for him
he is caught.

I walk onto the blazing
sunshine.
the whole day is
mine
temporarily,
anyhow.

(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned)

I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.

I embraced that stuff
like the hottest number,
like high heels, breasts,
singing,the
works.

(don't get me wrong,
there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself-
this is a shield and a
sickness.)

The knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I didn't fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
I luxuriated in them,
I made them welcome
home.
I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw, almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scares, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby's
butt.

and finally I discovered
real feelings of
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving,
for the track,
i saw my wife in bed,
just the
shape of
her head there
(not forgetting
centuries of the living
and the dead and
the dying,
the pyramids,
Mozart dead
but his music still
there in the
room, weeds growing,
the earth turning,
the tote board waiting for
me)
I saw the shape of my
wife's head,
she so still,
I ached for her life,
just being there
under the
covers.

I kissed her in the
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.
Joseph Joubert ~~

It is better to debate a question without settling it than to settle a question without debating it.


The aim of an argument or discussion should not be victory but progress.


“We love repose of mind so well, that we are arrested by anything which has even the appearance of truth; and so we fall asleep on clouds.”


You have to be like the pebble in the stream, keeping the grain and rolling along without being dissolved or dissolving anything else.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Arcturus Descending » Thu Jul 21, 2016 6:58 pm

Random Factor wrote:Its ironic that his name is so close to bukkake because that's what his poetry reminds me of, a bunch of jizz on the throat of the world.


I'm rather surprised that you feel that way. I might have thought that you enjoyed and appreciated his poetry.
I was wrong I suppose.
Joseph Joubert ~~

It is better to debate a question without settling it than to settle a question without debating it.


The aim of an argument or discussion should not be victory but progress.


“We love repose of mind so well, that we are arrested by anything which has even the appearance of truth; and so we fall asleep on clouds.”


You have to be like the pebble in the stream, keeping the grain and rolling along without being dissolved or dissolving anything else.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Ierrellus » Fri Jul 22, 2016 1:55 pm

Will the look into the social mirror and seeing oneself ever be without horror? Can we look without seeing yesterday as tomorrow? Is it limited to Self, this self felt sorrow? Oh, Chuck, is it nothing but luck, mostly bad? Before you define, tell me how you align with impositions of hell, do tell!
"We must love one another or die." W.H.Auden
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Meno_ » Sun Jul 24, 2016 6:30 am

Ierrellus wrote:Will the look into the social mirror and seeing oneself ever be without horror? Can we look without seeing yesterday as tomorrow? Is it limited to Self, this self felt sorrow? Oh, Chuck, is it nothing but luck, mostly bad? Before you define, tell m
e how you align with impositions of hell, do tell!


This is sheer coincidence at its most: seeing yesterday as it was today: I think those were Your words, Irrellus: any way, I paraphrase about my bird's eye view of that interesting take of Yours: I love Bukovsky, and just as to substantiate this temporal puzzle, I literally worked with Bukovsky at the same time and same place, (Terminal Annex; 1969), only read Post Office years later, must have seen him many times without ever having read him, but back then maybe he was not much published.

Anyway, the workplace was a mail distribution factory, I worked midnight to eight, as he must also have, for he was a distribution/loading clerk as well, ...

Talking of time passages! Later reading him, it struck a nerve, on how weird things can become in the past future tense, and now Your words, reverberating as they are.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Ierrellus » Sun Jul 24, 2016 1:12 pm

jerkey wrote:
Ierrellus wrote:Will the look into the social mirror and seeing oneself ever be without horror? Can we look without seeing yesterday as tomorrow? Is it limited to Self, this self felt sorrow? Oh, Chuck, is it nothing but luck, mostly bad? Before you define, tell m
e how you align with impositions of hell, do tell!


This is sheer coincidence at its most: seeing yesterday as it was today: I think those were Your words, Irrellus: any way, I paraphrase about my bird's eye view of that interesting take of Yours: I love Bukovsky, and just as to substantiate this temporal puzzle, I literally worked with Bukovsky at the same time and same place, (Terminal Annex; 1969), only read Post Office years later, must have seen him many times without ever having read him, but back then maybe he was not much published.

Anyway, the workplace was a mail distribution factory, I worked midnight to eight, as he must also have, for he was a distribution/loading clerk as well, ...

Talking of time passages! Later reading him, it struck a nerve, on how weird things can become in the past future tense, and now Your words, reverberating as they are.

Synchronicity? Or mere coincidence?
"We must love one another or die." W.H.Auden
I admit I'm an asshole. Now, can we get back to the conversation?
From the mad poet of McKinley Ave.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Meno_ » Sun Jul 24, 2016 5:43 pm

I think coincidence and synchronicity are on a continuum. Meaning there is a little bit of each in both. That your words were so poignant, set up a 'thick' referential field, apropos to the preoccupation I was having at this very time, and You talking about a theme that is discussed in the philosophy forum at the present time about time travel.

The mirror effect you are describing I have not considered, but I am sure it has significance in this context.

I think 'Bukovsky' is not merely a writer, a personality any longer, even if that, but a phenomenal bundle, which the forces of the fabric of the universe have
somehow changed. It may be a coincidence, but strange, and this strangeness has become appearent many times.
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Re: Tribute To Charles Bukowski

Postby Ierrellus » Mon Jul 25, 2016 3:36 pm

"The time is out of joint, O cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right."
"We must love one another or die." W.H.Auden
I admit I'm an asshole. Now, can we get back to the conversation?
From the mad poet of McKinley Ave.
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