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Guest Dusty Lipschitz

Charles Bukowski

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Guest Dusty Lipschitz

ok

his name came up in a post a while ago, and i replied saying he deserves his own post. he really does. i stumbled across buk years ago and was an instant fan.

for this who dont know charles bukowski was a miserable, drunk, womanizing, poet. got your attention?

 

he has written many books of poetry, a few novels, a movie, done some artwork and other good shit.

 

damn. i sit here tryin to think what i can write about him. just check him out yourself. here are a few good links:

http://realbeer.com/buk/bio.html

http://smog.net/writers/bukowski/

 

 

here is one of my favorite poems wriiten by him:

 

"The Aliens"

you may not believe it

but there are people

who go through life with

very little

friction or

distress.

they dress well, eat

well, sleep well.

they are contented with

their family

life.

they have moments of

grief

but all in all

they are undisturbed

and often feel

very good.

and when they die

it is an easy

death, usually in their

sleep.

 

you may not believe

it

but such people do

exist.

 

but I am not one of

them.

oh no, I am not one

of them,

I am not even near

to being

one of

them

 

but they are

there

 

and I am

here.

 

 

****************************************

 

can you relate?

 

 

 

------------------

Now back to your regularly scheduled re-programming...

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so ya had to start it eh dusty...nice...at work but can contribute later, but how but this one, dedicated to all those silly scorned or immature doods that dont think women were gods best creation...

 

Yes Yes – Charles Bukowski

 

when God created love He didn’t help most

when God created dogs He didn’t help dogs

when God created plants that was average

when God created hate we had a standard utility

when God created me He created me

when God created the monkey he was asleep

when He created the giraffe He was drunk

when he created narcotics He was high

and when He created suicide He was low

 

when He created you lying in bed

He knew what He was doing

He was drunk and He was high

and He created the mountains, and the sea and fire

at the same time

 

He made some mistakes

but when he created you lying in bed

He came all over His Blessed Universe

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Guest professor poopatronic

i think i started this topic a while back. definately one of the best. ham on rye is one of the best books i've ever read. one of the few authrs who can make me laugh out loud.

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mondays were made for charles bukowski:

 

"this"

 

self-congratulatory nonsense as the

 

famous gather to applaud their seeming

 

greatness

 

you

 

wonder where

 

the real ones are

 

what

 

giant cave

 

hides them

 

as

 

the deathly talentless

 

bow to

 

accolades

 

as

 

the fools are

 

fooled

 

again

 

you

 

wonder where

 

the real ones are

 

if there are

 

real ones.

 

this self-congratulatory nonsense

 

has lasted

 

decades

 

and

 

with some exceptions

 

centuries.

 

this

 

is so dreary

 

is so absolutely pitiless

 

it

 

churns the gut to

 

powder

 

shackles hope

 

it

 

makes little things

 

like

 

pulling up a shade

 

or

 

putting on your shoes

 

or

 

walking out on the street

 

more difficult

 

near

 

damnable

 

as

 

the famous gather to

 

applaud their

 

seeming

 

greatness

 

as

 

the fools are

 

fooled

 

again

 

humanity

 

you sick

 

motherfucker.

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Guest Dusty Lipschitz

thanks to all (aka- mental) for keeping the post up

 

what a perfect poem to come into the office on a monday morning to

 

------------------

Now back to your regularly scheduled re-programming...

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"hello, how are you?"

 

this fear of being what they are:

dead

 

at least they are not out on the street,they

are carefull to stay indoors, those

pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,

their lives full of canned mutilated laughter.

 

their ideal neighborhood

of parked cars

of little green lawns

of little homes

the little doors that open and close

as their relatives visit

throughout the holidays

the doors closing

behind the dying who die so slowly

behind the dead who are still alive

in your quiet average neighborhood

of winding streets

of agony

of confusion

of horror

of fear

of ignorance.

 

a dog standing behind a fence.

 

a man silent at the window.

 

------------------

we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars--oscar wilde

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from "the new censorship"1992

 

THE TRICK

 

the amazing thing about many insane people

is that

they can act perfectly sane

when they feel that that need can suit their

purpose.

in fact, many of these insane can act more

sane than a sane

person.

a sane person, much of the time, is often

hesitant about his or her opinions, feelings

etc.

whereas the insane person is acting sane,

since it is an act,

can often sound more in control and of

more inteligence

than the sane.

and what astonishes me is that

the mad

can go from raving and roaring

and salivating

in a tick and a flick

to seeming complete lucidity

if they feel, for one reason or

another, that this would be

beneficial to

them.

 

this whole matter is

confusing, for if they can

act sane, more sane than the

sane, then why not?

 

well, they just don't want

to.

they prefer insanity, they

chose it, they

languish in it

becase by doing it, they

destroy us.

 

and thats their goal.

to destroy us,

not themselves.

 

do you think i'm crazy

for saying this?

i might be.

 

sounds damned sane,

doesn't it?

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Guest Dusty Lipschitz

the crunch

 

 

too much too little

 

too fat

too thin

or nobody.

 

laughter or

tears

 

haters

lovers

 

strangers with faces like

the backs of

thumb tacks

 

armies running through

streets of blood

waving winebottles

bayoneting and fucking

virgins.

 

an old guy in a cheap room

with a photograph of M. Monroe.

 

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock

 

people so tired

mutilated

either by love or no love.

 

people just are not good to each other

one on one.

 

the rich are not good to the rich

the poor are not good to the poor.

 

we are afraid.

 

our educational system tells us

that we can all be

big-ass winners

 

it hasn't told us

about the gutters

or the suicides.

 

or the terror of one person

aching in one place

alone

 

untouched

unspoken to

 

watering a plant.

 

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

 

I suppose they never will be.

I don't ask them to be.

 

but sometimes I think about

it.

 

the beads will swing

the clouds will cloud

and the killer will behead the child

like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

 

too much

too little

 

too fat

too thin

or nobody

 

more haters than lovers.

 

people are not good to each other.

perhaps if they were

our deaths would not be so sad.

 

meanwhile I look at young girls

stems

flowers of chance.

 

there must be a way.

 

surely there must be a way that we have not yet

though of.

 

who put this brain inside of me?

 

it cries

it demands

it says that there is a chance.

 

it will not say

"no."

 

 

------------------

Now back to your regularly scheduled re-programming...

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i stole my friend this volume of short stories by buk. but with illstrations by r. crumbs. there's like 10-12 of them, all comic book sized. all short stories.

 

i'm currently in 'south of no north'..

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Guest Dusty Lipschitz
Originally posted by drunknessmonster

i stole my friend this volume of short stories by buk. but with illstrations by r. crumbs. there's like 10-12 of them, all comic book sized. all short stories.

 

i'm currently in 'south of no north'..

 

i have a few of those

nothing beats some creative shit by dirty ol' men

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....dusty ya ever heard em do spoken word? i got only one tape of him, basically its him getting progressively wasted rasping into a mic, shouting and mumling his poetry...needless to say its the shit....alot of it is from "drowning in the flames...."...if we ever cross paths in the universe youll have to check it out...its completely how i imagined his voice....

 

 

if your not enjoying the poetry in the day to day you aint livin

 

 

peter pan

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Guest Dusty Lipschitz

we actually have an amazing independent video store here, that specialize in indie/out or print/b-movies (betty page loops, odd propaganda films, etc.)

 

i was in there one day and came across the bukowski video tapes. there was one that was 2 videos and a single one. i rented the double and like you said, it was vintage buk, sipping wine, getting slushed and reading/mumbling his works.

 

i should own it, but i dont

 

in fact, i havent seen barfy now that i think of it...

 

go to amazon or ebay and do searchesthey have some cds, videos etc.

 

an autographed bukowski something is gonna be on the xmas wishlist this year...

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Guest bug

"a tragic meeting"

 

 

i was more visible and available then

and i had this great weakness:

i thought that going to bed with many women

meant that a man was clever and good and

superior

especially if he did it at the age of

55

to any number of bunnies

and i lifted weights

drank like mad

and did

that.

most of the women were nice

and most of them looked good

and only one or two were really dumb and

dull

but JoJo

I can't even categorize.

her letters were slight, repeated

the same things:

"I like your books, would like to meet

you..."

I wrote back and told her

it would be

all right.

then along came the instructions

where i was to meet

her: at this college

on this date

at this time

just after her

classes.

the college was up in the

hills and

the day and time

arrived

and with her drawings

of twisted streets

plus a road map

I set out.

it was somehwere between the Rose Bowl

and one of the largest graveyards in

Southern California

and I got there early and sat in my

car nipping at the Cutty Sark

and looking at the

co-eds- there were so many of

them, one simply couldn't have

them all.

then the bell rang and i got of the my

car and walked to the front of the

building, there was a long row of

steps and the students walked out of the

building and down the steps

and I stood and

waited, and like with airport

arrivals

I had no idea

whihc one

it would be.

"Chinaski," somebody said

and there she was: 18, 19,

neither ugly nor beautiful, of

average body and features,

seeming to be neither vicious,

intelligent, dumb or

insane.

we kissed lightly and then

I asked her if she

had a car

and she said

she had a car

and I said, "fine, I'll drive you

to it, then you follow

me..."

JoJo was a good follower, she followed me all

the way to my beat-up court in east

Hollywood.

I poured her a drink and we talked very

drab talk and kissed a

bit.

the kisses were neither good nor bad

nor interesting or un-

interesting.

much time went by and she drank very

little

and we kissed some more and she said,

"I like your books, they really do things

to me."

"Fuck my books!" I told her.

I was down to my shorts and I had her

skirt up to her ass

and I was working hard

but she just kissed and

talked.

she responded and she didn't

respond.

then

I gave up and started drinking

heavily.

she mentioned a few of the other

writers

she liked

but she didn't like any of them

the way she liked

me.

"yeah," I poured a new one, "is that

so?"

"I've got to get going," JoJo said,

"I've got class in the

morning."

"you can sleep here," I suggested, "and

get an early start, I scramble great

eggs."

"no, thank you, I've got to go..."

and she left with

several copies of my books

she had never seen

before,

copies i had given her

much earlier in the

evening.

I had another drink and decided to

sleep it off

as an unexplainable

loss.

I switched off the lights

and threw myself upon the

bed without

washing-up or

brushing my

teeth.

I looked up into the dark

and thought, now, here is one

I will never be able to

write about:

she was neither good nor bad,

real or unreal, kind or

unkind, she was just a girl

from a college

somewhere between the Rose Bowl and

the dumping grounds.

then I began to itch, I scratched

myself, I seemed to feel things

on my face, on my belly, I inhaled,

exhaled, tried to sleep but

the itching got worse, then

I felt a bite, then several bites,

things appeared to be crawling on me...

I rushed to the bathroom

and switched on the light

my god, JoJo had fleas.

I stepped into the shower

stood there

adjusting the water,

thinking,

that poor

dear

girl.

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Guest TEARZ

you know, i'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that i really don't like him. granted, i've only read hot water music, but i just found him very off putting for me. and it's not because of his drinking/ views on women/ whatever his common knocks are.... off putting is a weak way to say it because it gets caught up in all that other crap. i guess i'm just not digging him. or to be fair, that one book. i didn't take a lot away from it. and as far as literature is concerned, i usually feel like i can always take something away from a book. whatever. it's not that deep.

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Guest Dow Jonez

i was rumaging through a library years ago and by absolute chance ran into a book by charles bukowski.........i loved it and told everyone i knew to read his shit

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Guest Dusty Lipschitz

why write your anthropology paper, when you could be reading buk?

bump

wonk saggin

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