Motto: „ they are all elsewhere/ examining things/ in new bedrooms/” – Charles Bukowski – Praying for rainy days

**** Bukowski
thinks that’s a supraestimated fake
for townsends of years
„ harder than The Riots of Watts”
and it’s not about *****

it’s too precoius and delicate
and it’s not about women
'couse the women *** with roses
or with the spine-birds
and still gets payed on the job

it’s all about poetry
it’s about that funny slaughterhouse
in wich we kick eachothers stupide ***
like some real lovers
and then we rearange our underwear
or what’s left of it

it’s all about  a load of **** good to be throwned at the garbage
'couse – don't mention it – there is nothing heroical
and every ****** thing is a makeup
there is just a mouse shiverring in a corner
two ugly frogs are hugging all what is left of the sun
and above all
the monkey is trying hard to improvise a tired smile

**** Bukowski
I don't know a living soul with such a perseveration
to ****-up his poems
like his money on horse-races
like his fat’n’ugly mexican ******
and still somehow to become his own hero
insane like this
born into this
and becouse he had lived to much like a dog

alone with the whole world
with it’s ******* **** beauty
in wich actualy nobudy finds his mate

in wich everything it’s just a canibalistic clown
and a childish cry
almoust painfully dead
from his own laughter

where I come from my dear traveler

it’s the stage

of a vineyard form of amphitheater

dug by my father among the others when

he was still

in his vital states of mind

when he was drunkenly adorable



beyond mountains and forests

beyond those noctambulist draculities

and argues on the nationality

of dear mother of God


where I come from there are people not landscapes

of plastic with mannequins

nor freaky castles with touristic news

it’s me and you and all who still believe

in that dubious rest of humanity



where I come from the single life insurance

that makes us true is the bread

and the salt of the land

it’s everything that keeps us free

and madly together



from there I mounted on my eyes

a kind of wasting

and alcohol of vanity

because the vineyard is gone for good

and above all even above my dad

the forest is growing high

thus my joy is a kind of dream on the edge

kind of resentment

and tears swallowed again and again

by the rage

You never came to my house

Maybe

You went to the neighbours

I was here

Please come in and sit down

Wish I could give you something sweet

But I such finished it all

That my teeth hurts



I ask you red like this

Although

I'm painfully blue

Can you give me a pain-killer?



Can you?

(poem for 69 March...:)

she was a shy one whenever I saw her
something grabed me so that suddenly
I was putting my finger in her eye
pour a glass of water behind her neck
or hell knows what fierce animal
in her backpack

"life is pain baby!" - I cried out
showing her
my last scratches still bleeding

and she loved me
with all its little-girl fury
unfairly fought

twenty years after I wake up with a lady
suddenly on the street
puts her finger in my eye
while pours water behind my neck

"life is funny old man" -she whispered

then she invited me to her place
and from one word to another
we got fierce little animals
wich couldn't take anymore
of that shy reality

tough retrieval what can I say
with all my calmness of praised man
maybe rightly
I never saw her again

and I hate her guts