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When your embrace envelopes me,
I'm forever within your protection.
And there is no place I'd rather be
than between your arms of affection.

The bluebird buried inside my heart
flutters whenever you surround.
And through your sweet sincerity,
it forever sings Freedom's sound.
Inspired my favorite poem of Charles Bukowski.
And my bluebird is now a lovebird, thanks to a special someone.
Hope Mar 29
He can write about his ****
or his words making firm breast
with playful ******* hard.
He writes about turning you on
with the flick of the wrist.
About a few strokes, up and down,
helps a man
fall asleep.
He's penned **** lines about women,
his rooster has crowed in.
He has a way with words you see.
but those words stop at me.

He often looks at himself and says how
handsome and **** he is.
Doesn't say such things to me.
Can't take his eyes off the reflection
in a one way mirror.
He's in love and been in love
with his own cocky self
and women.

A real Hank Chinaski
with grit and front teeth being
knocked loose poetry.
I've asked him to write a **** poem about me
that he didn't have to share it with anyone else it could be our little secret.
disappointingly, the man who could write about chronic *******, or a perfect ***
couldn't pen one for me.
Here he can write about *****,
moans, being taken to ecstasy
between the thighs of one woman or another.
But not for me, the so called one he "loves"
not even in secret
or hitting the lobe of my ear.
He tells me he's shy...

I can't help but feel
awkward and not exactly what he wants
for his pen can stroke fire
take a woman's ******* off
just simply not for me.
Hope Mar 29
He writes poetry
sometimes three an hour
he's brilliant!
With metaphors
that bite
leaving no meat
on the bone.
A punch
straight to the chin
with his topics
and in your face
peacock strut.
You could
live and die to his
work.

I use to be his muse
back and forth
we'd send blood
red ink
with the scent of
love,
*** and
longing.
The eyes
which followed
our romance
would gush over
the blaze
beauty
and adoration
laced in each write.

I'd read the ones
blessed for me.
As time
turned to smoke
which hit the
midnight hour.

Then one day
all of it
stopped.
The flowers
went into the grave
our love
turned to
cigarette ash
which flew
straight
off the cherry.
It burned
the tattoos off my body
and he wrote me
one last write.
It was about how he
didn't mourn us.
I
was but a pebble
left on a dock
that he dropped
while walking
away from the empty
wine bottle and
dead June bugs.

He
had
moved on.
While I stayed
writing.
Each one collected dried up dust
left closed and unread by him.
As he lifted skirts and fell in love
or got too drunk and ran off with a
foreigner.
My tears soaked pages
and he wrote them poetry....
It killed parts of me
and some are still dying.

Months now, we're back together.
Only took a plane ticket,
night clubs
and fancy dinners
with white cloth napkins.
There I asked to be his again.

He doesn't write to me
like he use to.
At  gunpoint alone
will he pick up the phone
and type
me a quickie.
He tells me,
that he can't Bukowski it up
for me,
as he did for the others.
Their writes were ****, raw
emotional
and love soaked.

Is it wrong for me
to want what they had?
what I use to have?
I surely don't know
and any god of your choosing
hasn't answered me
but one other poet did.
He replied poets can be selfish.
I believe he was speaking about me.

The crickets are chirping
and I finished my cigarette
not holding my breath
for my own
Bukowski poem.
dario x Jan 2
These conspiracy theories are killing my brother

one video at a time,

as he inhales each line

like a Colombian drug lord with ties to the CIA,

as he withers like a grape on a vine full of GE pesticides.

I told him to lighten up, go for a walk,

visit grandpa in the hospital,

but he wouldn't listen,

and thinks it's more important

to spend his time waging war online

against the armies of the unseen.

Six months later, he lost his job like a *****

who od on ****** supplied by the US Army,

and though I have never trusted the Gov

or corporations or politicians,

neither do i trust documentaries

made by lonely people

who need a computer

to feel safe,

as they tell us

the computer is evil

and going to overthrow us all,

which is really a metaphor

for the problem

I have for all conspiracy theorists

like my brother,

who think they're fighting

against all the ill gotten spoils

of an empire built with bombs and technology,

yet can't go a day without logging in.
dario x Jan 2
we drank,

and we fought

and we cheated on each other,

and i thought i was tough,

could get away with being numb

because she cried first,

but after she left,

not even the whiskey

could keep away the pain

and no matter how much

i drank,

it just kept falling

through the cracks

of my soul

and spilled

over my body

like sweat

or blood

or tears,

it didn’t matter

what word

i used

to describe it

because

only those

who have

been there,

know what it feels like,

and by then,

all poetry

is useless.
Nick Moore Jan 2012
One day
A time will come
My eye's search, tentative and narrow

A visit from
Bukowski's
Red sparrow

The light
My flesh will burn,
I hope to be
a
tasty worm
the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.

then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile  -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.

oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.

"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.  

"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.

"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...

...why would i let go of all

-i feel-

is left?"

he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...

...maybe he's halfway there...

regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.

to continue is to face those suspenseful

-crescendos-

of life, with
"a ******* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,

no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-

...

-melancholicreator
transferred and added on from paper on a very tough night that required lots of crying to get anywhere creatively, reflects my current struggles/state of mind.

enjoy.
i found myself reading
the words of Bukowski
as he describes a series
of meaningless moments
aspects of a journey
seemingly trifling
prosaic and unremarkable
in the manner recounted

a bus stops at a cafe
in the hills
lightly touched by
a newly-falling snow
of food and coffee
he says both were good
the waitress rare
the cook effervescent
the dishwasher commodious

as the snow swirls
beyond the window
he describes the scene
as beautiful but curious
certain it will forever
be beautiful in that way
he wished to stay
yet returned to the bus
nonetheless
when the driver beckoned

the other passengers
spoke or read or
tried to sleep
and none had noticed
the beauty of that moment
that something could be
so poignant to one
while being mundane
to others
is worth remembering
i guess
Thomas W Case Dec 2023
I'm not surprised anymore by
the extraordinary.
When life bombards
me with trivialities, and
ordinary events,
something always happens to
jolt me from my lethargy.

"Bukowski **** on
the training pads!"
My brother yells, from
the dining room.
I'm living with my
brother, and
we have two
black kittens, Mojo and
Bukowski.
They bring me
hours of smiles.
I've never seen
eyes so full of
trust and adoration.

Bukowski has an
aversion to the litterbox.
We have tried everything.
When I put him in,
he jumps out like it's
a muddy pond.

His brother Mojo adores
the litter box.
Not only does he do
his business, he also
plays and sleeps there on
occasion.
We've started with
the training pads and
newspapers.
It's working.
Amidst all the destruction,
hate, and chaos in the
world, I'm eaten up by
the magic of the ordinary.

I talk to them as
they doze in the
afternoon sun.
"Thank you boys,
you got me going again,
Mojo, you broke the
dry spell."
They blink, and
Bukowski licks his
brother's head.
Check out my book, Seedy Town Blues on Amazon.
joe thorpe Oct 2023
I got the small room.

I am winning the day.

Finally, I can breathe.



except, the walls are stained,

the mattress, too.

thick brown streaks;

a hundred men have sweated

The Fear

in these walls, I think.



the mirror

in the shared bathroom

sees the blood in my eyes.



a fly, a small black, buzzing

fly,

crawls over my fingers

as I am writing this letter.



and the fly crawls

over me,

Over the table,

Over my dreams.



crawls over cheap, thin-soled shoes.

my words on the page.

my whisky, too.



the fly crawls across the dents in my soul.

the handkerchief

I use to wipe my mouth.



and so, what do you do?

I swing my pencil at its soft dark body,

failing,

I flail my arms,

as crazy men do.

would anyone rescue me

from my hell and understand.

the fly and I.

isolated I am.



through the window

pane,

under the full haunted moon,

I undress myself.

to the bed

I lay myself soon.

the single-sized sluggish bed before me.

bed of a hundred men.

one hundred dead men.

one hundred dead-drunk men.

me, now as I am.
If Charles Bukowski wrote a gothic poem
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