Jump to content
cindy

Goal: 100,000 POST IN THIS THREAD

Recommended Posts

(i don't get poemy very often, and when i do it's almost always bukowski, just wanted to save a few things for later, carry on and don;t mind me)

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
Registered members do not see this ad. Click here to create your free account today.
Registered members do not see this ad. Click here to create your free account today.

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 young girls in this

dwindling twilight

liver gone

kidneys going

pancrea pooped

top-floor blood pressure

while all the fear of the wasted years

laughs between my toes

no woman will live with me

no Florence Nightingale to watch the

Johnny Carson show with

if I have a stroke I will lay here for six

days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh

from my elbows, wrists, head

the radio playing classical music ...

I promised myself never to write old man poems

but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-

cause I've long gone past using myself and there's

still more left

here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from

the typer

pour another glass and

insert

make love to the fresh new whiteness

maybe get lucky

again

first for

me

later

for you.

from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

magical mystery tour

I am in this low-slung sports car

painted a deep, rich yellow

driving under an Italian sun.

I have a British accent.

I'm wearing dark shades

an expensive silk shirt.

there's no dirt under my

fingernails.

the radio plays Vivaldi

and there are two women with

me

one with raven hair

the other a blonde.

they have small breasts and

beautiful legs

and they laugh at everything I

say.

as we drive up a steep road

the blonde squeezes my leg

and nestles closer

while raven hair

leans across and nibbles my

ear.

we stop for lunch at a quaint

rustic inn.

there is more laughter

before lunch

during lunch and after

lunch.

after lunch we will have a

flat tire on the other side of

the mountain

and the blonde will change the

tire

while

raven hair

photographs me

lighting my pipe

leaning against a tree

the perfect background

perfectly at peace

with

sunlight

flowers

clouds

birds

everywhere.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

(sometimes it's not bukowski, but i promise iw on;t do this often... again sorry)

Love in the Asylum

A stranger has come

To share my room in the house not right in the head,

A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.

Strait in the mazed bed

She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,

At large as the dead,

Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed

Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,

Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust

Yet raves at her will

On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last

I may without fail

Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

by Dylan Thomas

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love

If I were tickled by the rub of love,

A rooking girl who stole me for her side,

Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,

If the red tickle as the cattle calve

Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,

I would not fear the apple nor the flood

Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the cells,

And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.

If I were tickled by the hatching hair,

The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,

The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,

I would not fear the gallows nor the axe

Nor the crossed sticks of war.

Shall it be male or female? say the fingers

That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.

I would not fear the muscling-in of love

If I were tickled by the urchin hungers

Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.

I would not fear the devil in the loin

Nor the outspoken grave.

If I were tickled by the lovers' rub

That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock

Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,

Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib

Would leave me cold as butter for the flies

The sea of scums could drown me as it broke

Dead on the sweethearts' toes.

This world is half the devil's and my own,

Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl

And curling round the bud that forks her eye.

An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,

And all the herrings smelling in the sea,

I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail

Wearing the quick away.

And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.

The knobbly ape that swings along his sex

From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist

Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,

Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast

Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six

Feet in the rubbing dust.

And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?

Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?

My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?

The words of death are dryer than his stiff,

My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.

I would be tickled by the rub that is:

Man be my metaphor.

by Dylan Thomas

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

"These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I'd be a damn fool if they weren't."

Dylan Thomas

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

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

hurts."

"are you drinking?" he will ask.

"are you getting your

exercise, your

vitamins?"

I think that I am just ill

with life, the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

"taking off?" asks the motel

clerk.

"yes, it's boring,"

I tell him.

"If you think it's boring

out there," he tells me, "you oughta be

back here."

so here I am

propped up against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it's just

my cat

this

time.

Charles Bukowski

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

and god willing the last for a while... um... not promising tho.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

by e e cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

holy crap... a blizzard. were we supposed to be having a blizzard?

i like blizzards. low pressure systems are...

this will fix the poeminess in no time.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

the urge to spam vs the urge to maintain social convention and conversational flow...

i'm very poorly socialized.

it was never a contest.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

A priest, a rabbi and a minister decide to see who's best at his job. The test is to go into the woods, find a bear and try to convert it.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

After they are done the priest says, "I read to the bear from the Catechism, sprinkled him with holy water and next week is his First Communion."

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Lol 110 replies.

The Prince of Persia movie is just embarrassing for America. I am so ******* sick of the British accent covering EVERY OTHER COUNTRY'S ACCENT in Hollywood, unless of course the accent is being mocked. Can't we rotate? The Swedes seem to be in recently...Do them for a while.

Anyway, **** this movie sucks. There's nothing good about this movie...maybe Alfred Molina, who is in this for some reason.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Lol 110 replies.

The Prince of Persia movie is just embarrassing for America. I am so ******* sick of the British accent covering EVERY OTHER COUNTRY'S ACCENT in Hollywood, unless of course the accent is being mocked. Can't we rotate? The Swedes seem to be in recently...Do them for a while.

Anyway, **** this movie sucks. There's nothing good about this movie...maybe Alfred Molina, who is in this for some reason.

thank you - i will be sure to avoid it

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

the humans brought over a slice of white asparagus pizza... the pizza was white, not the asparagus... a chicken cutlet and a roast red pepper.

this is why it's necessary to keep a few actual humans on tap. the internet is nice but it never feeds me.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now


×