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Words by lamblyn


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June 4, 2006
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I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.

He was such an unhappy man
that Bukowski.

He had nothing but his
                               women
                                        and
                                            beer.
(He has me beat there)

He saw the worst in
  everyone.

He loved nothing but his
  type writer.

He only found serenity within his
                                            words
                                                  and
                                                     scribbles.
(We're equal there)

He was such an unhappy man
that Bukowski.

His misery and tribulations
lead to writing all his tiny miracles
and
that's
so
sad.

And in those tiny miracles
he sounded
more
and
more
mad.

Mad man.
            Honest man.
                             Drunk man.
                                           Wretched man.
All true.

Spending eternity on a bar stool
clothes covered in shit
mind in other things
reeking of cheap booze
                                 and
                                     cheaper perfume.

He didn't see beauty
in
anything.

The only person he liked
was an 8 year old
who once pointed out that
the ocean was
                  very
                      ugly.

He dubbed that kid a genius.
I'm worried he'd call me a genius too..
the next time we meet.

I meet him everyday actually
He's always cynical
with nothing but talk of
fucking,
drinking,
more fucking
and horses.

I didn't mind his smell.

Sometimes
he'd suddenly stop babbeling away
about the 4th horse.

He'd tug my sleeve and point
at the man who just
entered the bar
and ordered the cheapest booze.

"He's gonna die you know." He said
in that raspy brittle voice of his.

"Mhmmm...
He's gonna die tonight
when he finishes
his tenth beer.

He's gonna pick a fight
with the biggest motherfucker
here
and tell him that he still likes to suck on his
mom's titty.

He's gonna fight the good fight
but he's gonna lose.

That's the story of his life
                                  failures
                                          atop
                                              more
                                                  failures.

And when he comes to it he's gonna order that
tenth beer.
He's gonna crawl out of here
to his shithole apartment.
He's gonna pick up the phone
pick up his phonebook
and dial all his friends still in town to tell them it's his
birthday.

And they'll just hang up on his face.

He's gonna die when he comprehends
that
     nobody
              cares;
that
    nobody
             understands.

That all he ever did would never amount to
much.

He's gonna die in his bed with the tenth beer
smearing his bleached sheets.
"

I cringed.
I stared at the man longer
                                    and
                                        harder
attempting to capture a snapshot of his features.
I should go there I though.
I should go and ask him for his name.
His job.
His age.
His loved one's name,
and if he had a pet.

I should stop him from buying that
tenth beer.

He turned just as I managed to gather the will to go to
him.

He was Bukowski.


                                            I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.


That Bukowski was such an
unhappy man.

The more miserable he got
the more tiny mircales
he tardily
penned.

The more lonesome he was
the more women
he vacuously
fucked...
secretly wishing that they'd
be there in
the
morning.

None of them
did.

The more failures he encountered
the more beer
he rapidily
downed...
openly stating that the booze
would warm his shriveled body
when none of the women
                                  could
                                        heat
                                              it
                                               up.


                                          I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.



That Bukowski was such an
unhappy man.

He seemingly gave up on
everything
even his tombstone read
                                   "Don't Try."

But he did.
he survived
for 74 years.
Even when he couldnt talk of
fucking,
drinking,
more fucking
and horses.

I don't know how he did it.
I guess staring at those words he wrote
through the years
did him good.

Art made everything more bearable
and in Bukowski's case...
I think the music helped too
He was quite fond of that Tchaikovsky.

So I press play
and listen to symphony #5.

Glorious.

I too now am staring at the words I wrote
through the years.
From failed loved poems
when I was 13yrs old
                                to
                                  this.

But more importantly.
I'm staring at the words Bukowski wrote
through the years.

What he did and what I am doing
might actually amount to something
mine's a tiny speck in comparison.
but it's something...



If Bukowski with all his unhappiness
could survive
                  then
                        I
                        can
                            too.


                                           I want to pull off a Bukowski.
EDIT: Me reading this, if your interested in hearing flu ridden moe that is. I sound so sick and nasal it's hilarious and my imitation Bukowski is so wrong and delightfulyl retarded:

[link]



This is rather long.
This is probabily in the wrong section.
This is probabily typed out all wrong.
This most certainly contains the most bloody use of the english language to this date.

But I really dont care.

I've been walking for close to 5 hours now, and I just got back. Round 8:30 am round these parts. I think a few people think I'm mad, talkign and yelling out loud debating with myself.

I was walking, talking, taking shots and listening to everything. From Four Tet to DJ Shadow. From Eric Dolphy to Bukowski.

Bukowski. Bukowski. Bukowski.

This is a ramble. This is pointless. But I managing to get it out. I think that's good. I'm writing this as I go along. As I recorded it on my cassette while walking. I'm jut going to write just as I spoke it. Maybe I'll upload a clip of me reading this. Lien was right. Spoken word needs to be heard, nto read. Whats the point of it being spoken if you couldnt hear the writer's voice carried through the air waves?

I've never written something as honest as this.
I've never written something as long as this.

But I think it's the best thing my feeble mind has ever conjured up.
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:iconashellessmind:
ashellessmind Featured By Owner Sep 22, 2012
Remember this?
Reply
:iconthe-chemical-actor:
the-chemical-actor Featured By Owner Apr 15, 2010
I hate peotry. When I originally started reading bukowski I thought he was only a novelist, then I saw his poetry and thought it was pretty good. This is the only other poem that I've ever read and liked.
congratz.
Reply
:iconchuckiebobphil:
chuckiebobphil Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2010  Professional Artist
I absolutely love it
Reply
:iconmoejo:
moejo Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2010  Hobbyist Photographer
<3
Reply
:iconchuckiebobphil:
chuckiebobphil Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2010  Professional Artist
It was way good. I think you'd like my Bukowski'ish poem Ode to Bukowski.
Reply
:icontruthiseek:
truthiseek Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2009
This, despite the few inaccuracies, is one of the best poems I've read here on DA.
Great tribute to a great artist (and beer-drinker).
Reply
:iconabstracteyeview:
abstracteyeview Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2008
Fucking great. I love this poem. Bukowski is my favorite poet, by the way, so I'm obviously biased. Good job, man.
Reply
:iconmoejo:
moejo Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2008  Hobbyist Photographer
thanks alot mate =]
Reply
:iconperverse-pleasure:
perverse-pleasure Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2008   Writer
this is the soul of bukowski mixed with bruce e k

moe, this is so absolutely gut wrenching. i hate you for writing this, it's so fucking i sad, i feel really horrible now. =[
Reply
:iconmoejo:
moejo Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2008  Hobbyist Photographer
funny enough ive yet to write anythign that didnt me feel even worse than before
Reply
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