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
Related quotes
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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Wouldn't Mama Be Proud?
The question is wouldn't mama be proud?
There's a silver lining in the corporate cloud
And the pretty pose that you're taking as
As an emcee, oh, of the great pretender
I should sure think so
Wouldn't mama be proud?
"can i take your order?"
Asks the heavenly host
Ticket to the jetstream
Blowing coast to coast
The long stemmed glasses, a movie
And a pleasant dream in mid air
You gotta tell me quickly
Cos we're almost there
Wouldn't mama be proud?
If you look out your window
And the sky's gone black
Well kid you're on the right track
If i send you postcards
From the side of the road
Photographs of moving
Parts about to explode
If i call to keep it together
Like you say i can do
To transmit a moment
From me to you
Wouldn't mama be proud?
Wouldn't mama be proud?
Wouldn't mama be proud?
Wouldn't mama be proud?
song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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How Is Your Heart?
during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Power of the King
Death be not proud
for you have no hold over my life,
Death be not proud
for I cannot die! !
Death be not proud
you instill no fear
Death be not proud
for my King lay down His life for me
Death be not proud
you have no power
you destroy just flesh and bone
you dont have the power to resurrect
Death be not proud
you own me not
for I have been bought
Death be not proud
for my soul shall live on,
In HIS Kingdom is where I belong! !
poem by Melissa Desiree Reddy
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You Really Wouldn't Want Me That Way
I know I'm far from perfect,too set in my ways for my own good
And there's other things about me you think you'd like to change if you just could
I could let you shape me,mold me like a potter's piece of clay
But you really wouldn't want me that way
It's a crazy world we live in and it keeps on getting tougher all the time
You say you wish I wouldn't let life's troubles weigh so heavy on my mind
When things are wrong I guess that I could smile pretending everything's okay
But you really wouldn't want me that way
I'm just the man I've always been,I don't know how to be nobody else
And a man can only change so much till he becomes a shadow of himself
I never could be happy if I were just your puppet on a string,yes I could change
But you really wouldn't want me that way
Now don't misunderstand me,I want to be a man that makes you proud
I ain't ashamed to show how much I love you every way that I know how
I can make concessions but don't ask me to bend until I break
'Cause you really wouldn't want me that way
Don't ask me tomorrow to become someone I wasn't yesterday
'Cause you really wouldn't want me that way
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Have Chinaski In My Mind
so you like chinaski
i like chinaski
too
i see him make love to many women
and drink his wine
and write his poems
somewhere
in the dark, damp corners
of the post office
or in the attic
or even in the park while
he strolls alone
drinks more than
what his mind
can take
and then
he arrives in his
apartment
gets his typewriter
and writes his thousand
poems as though
he is just talking
mumbling
to himself
all his sighs
and disappointments
of this world
now
well spoken
in verse and he
signs each
with this
bukowski, the man
you will never forget
he shies away
from fame but he
takes
the money just the same
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Big Night On The Town
drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Revolt In The Ranks
I have just spent one-hour-and-a-half
handicapping tomorrow's
card.
when am I going to get at the poems?
well, they'll just have to wait
they'll have to warm their feet in the
anteroom
where they'll sit gossiping about
me.
"this Chinaski, doesn't he realize that
without us he would have long ago
gone mad, been dead?"
"he knows, but he thinks he can keep
us at his beck and call!"
"he's an ingrate!"
"let's give him writer's block!"
"yeah!"
"yeah!& quot;
"yeah!"
the little poems kick up their heels
and laugh.
then the biggest one gets up and
walks toward the door.
"hey, where are you going?" he is
asked.
"somewhere where I am
appreciated."
then, he
and the others
vanish.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Trashcan Lives
the wind blows hard tonight
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Curtain
the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
flowers, cheers, tears, a thunderous
accolade.
I have not seen this particular musical
but I know if I had that I wouldn't have
been able to bear it, it would have
sickened me.
trust me on this, the world and its
peoples and its artful entertainment has
done very little for me, only to me.
still, let them enjoy one another, it will
keep them from my door
and for this, my own thunderous
accolade.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Confession
waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry for
my wife
she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again
"Hank!"
Hank won't
answer.
it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.
I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her
even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid
and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:
I love
you.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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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.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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On Going Back To The Street After Viewing An Art Show
they talk down through
the centuries to us,
and this we need more and more,
the statues and paintings
in midnight age
as we go along
holding dead hands.
and we would say
rather than delude the knowing:
a damn good show,
but hardly enough for a horse to eat,
and out on the sunshine street where
eyes are dabbled in metazoan faces
i decide again
that in theses centuries
they have done very well
considering the nature of their
brothers:
it's more than good
that some of them,
(closer really to the field-mouse than
falcon)
have been bold enough to try.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Cows In Art Class
good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen
and when it does
it doesn't
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he's bad
there's more chance
he'll stay that way,
or if he's good
he might hang
on,
but a woman
is changed
by
children
age
diet
conve rsation
sex
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
stronger
by being hated.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Prayer In Bad Weather
by God, I don't know what to
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Im So Proud
Youre prettier than all the world
And Im so proud, Im so proud, Im so proud of you
cause youre only one fellows girl
Im so proud, Im so proud, Im so proud of you
Im so proud of being loved by you
And it would hurt, hurt to know,
If you ever were untrue, yeah
Sweeter than the taste of a cherry so sweet
Yeah, and Im so proud, Im so proud,
Im so proud of you
Compliments to you from all the people we meet
Yes babe and Im so proud, Im so proud,
Im so proud of you
Im so proud of being loved by you
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As The Sparrow
To give life you must take life,
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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