I Know That You Still Love Me...
between shakespeare
and bukowski
i prefer bukowski
brautigan smells better
than shelly
this is my way of telling you
that i am shallow and cheap
on the other hand when i
begin to write like
bukowski and brautigan
combined
i know that somehow in that
academic pretense of yours
you still like me and read a lot
about what i write
inside your room
when you are all alone
and then
with affection
you kiss every word
that you think i do not really mean
writing
and then
you giggle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
A Conclusion
far from it,
how can he be
a richard brautigan?
tried Bukowski
but at the end
he repeats the
line: who the hell
is Bukowski?
he begins again
saying: hey i am.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Believing Bukowski
amazing bukowski
dead
buried,
i give up reading
him
and his poetry
something in him
tells me
that i am better
than him
not that i write so well
but he says
if i were to be better
than him or
anybody else
there is only one thing
that i must do
be myself
and believe in
myself
great bukowski
you are original
idol.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chinaski's Smiling
I reach
for the
tattered book
off of my toilet
tank, and
think...,
'Wouldn't
Bukowski
be proud'
Blurred,
sunken eyes
and rotted,
coffee-stained
teeth
'Wouldn't
Bukowski
be proud'
Crapping,
with the
Stench
of death
surrounding me
'Wouldn't
Bukowski
be proud'
Another hard-fought
battle with the bottle
And still: I'm
sucking in air....
'In with the good-
out with the bad'
Bukowski's dead.
Soon, I'll be dead.
Death
doesn't
have
pride
Ask Elvis.
Ask Chinaski
I've Read A Lot Of Bukowski
wanting to be like him
in his writing style i read a lot about
Bukowski
I sniffed his wine and women
and his writing place
i've read every manuscript
and i begin to like him more than ever
not his style really but his
decision to be just himself
now like him i want to be nobody but myself too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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December 30
At 1:30 in the morning a fart
smells like a marriage between
an avocado and a fish head.
I have to get out of bed
to write this down without
my glasses on.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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Contemporary Poetry
contemporary poetry
is nice to read since they are
not cliches, very much unlike
shakespeare or
mary oliver
i 've seen one and read it
over and over again
it feels like
trickling rain from
my forehead to my
spine
like this:
rain
rain
go
away
come
back
an
other
d
a
y....
i am amazed
i think i will write about jack and jill went up the hill to get a pail of water.
jack forgot and
what is that? jill come rolling after?
the pail.
i am bitter.
sour i mean.
i don't belong
i am one kind of a frustrated contemp...
orary wri
ter.
well, i will try next time
i have to reread
bukowski's advice
i will wait
till the next tick.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What A Writer
what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Humanity, you never had it to begin with.
quote by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Contemporary Poetry (2)
contemporary poetry
is nice to read since they are
not cliches, very much unlike
shakespeare or
mary oliver
i 've seen one and read it
over and over again
it feels like
trickling rain from
my forehead to my
spine
like this:
rain
rain
go
away
come
back
an
other
d
a
y....
i am amazed
i think i will write about jack and jill went up the hill to get a pail of water.
jack forgot and
what is that? jill come rolling after?
the pail.
i am bitter.
sour i mean.
i don't belong
i am one kind of a frustrated contemp...
orary wri
ter.
well, i will try next time
i have to reread
bukowski's advice
i will wait
till the next tick.
oh well,
i got other things to do.
the grapes are sour anyway.
(cliche duh!)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Question And Answer
he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that--
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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No Mandatory Rhymes Or Reason
Homer to
Chaucer to
Whitman to
Bukowski et al. to
Me to
You
A poem is where I find it,
Not just what was written
In a different time.
Pieces of a poem are everywhere.
Pick them up, pull them together, write them down
And they call you a poet.
Ignore the pieces you see in person, read or hear;
You've wasted your sight and hearing
And they don't call you at all.
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Poem For My 43rd Birthday
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Cause And Effect
the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
poem by Charles Bukowski
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I Couldn't Believe It
.. that you read
so well now
poetry coming
from your mouth
read by you
full of beautiful
angst like
blue birds
caged in your
heart....
a la
bukowski.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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16-bit Intel 8088 chip
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.
quote by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'll think about things for thirty or forty years before I'll write it.
quote by Richard Brautigan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.
quote by Charles Bukowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Spot....
this is a blank slate.
when i write some words on it
and you begin to read each
something really happens
though you do not know it
because you are too busy with
the reading of the word
either a part of me dies or lives
it depends on where you stop
and when
tomorrow i shall write again
you must learn where you stopped and
when.
it is that precise moment
that you make me begin to write again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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