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Jay Jun 20
at the border and in cages
it’s the worst
in clouds of smog
it’s the worst
in prisons
it’s the worst
in foster care homes
it’s the worst
at the mall
at factories
at fundraisers for the poor
it’s the worst
at parties
at family gatherings
it’s the worst
at city hall meetings
at schools
at movie theaters
it’s the worst
in the morning
in the afternoon
in the evening
it’s he worst

going to bed
yellow balloons
that’s the best

looking at the starts
smelling food
watching the cow escape the slaughter
that’s the best

sparkling water
a bee pollinating a flower
that’s the best

swatting flies
fresh bed sheets
overcoming suffering
that’s the best

apposing the rich
unpopular opinions
fighting for minorities
that’s the best

vintage finds
forgotten promised
happy thoughts
that’s the best

a still mind
hatred extinguished
that’s the best
for me.
Nigdaw Jun 17
There is nothing lonelier than wanting to be alone
They are queuing at my door to tell me
About my latest work
Asking what I'm doing now
For advice on what to write
What's hip or in Vogue
As if I'd know, I've been talking
About myself for years

But the beer in the fridge has
More to say to me then any of them
It speaks of the quiet of loneliness
Seeping into bones numbing
Brain cells
I can feel it wash over me
It tastes of stale breath and smells of bo
It wears a shirt unbuttoned down the front
Trousers with the fly open
Sitting listening to Sibelius
Smoking cigarettes

It's like the ***** that just won't leave
You're tired of all the talking
But you know you want to do it
One more time while you can
This is written as a homage to Charles Bukowski.
Ol’ Pete

had his youthful strings swaying

bird had its questioning flute

Duck, the sad, wobbling oboe

Cat the quickening clarinet

Kettles made their blasts

And the wolf

Ahhh the wolf

Loomin', lumberin ', and French

That ****** wolf had it all

And I've got my noisy type bars

And My beer caps

A dangerous place indeed

French horn sounds take a lazy drink

Boys like me ‘n’ Ol’ Pete

Aren’t afraid of the woods

Everything was quiet

Then the terror set in.
Hey Buk    

I just wanted to say...

Thank you

You make me laugh

You make me think

About this thing called life

And the small part I play

You inspire me to write

Even though by comparison

I am a fraud

I promise to dedicate my first book

To you

Or Robert Baun

Or my wife.
A short thank you to Charles Bukowski, who makes my life richer for knowing him and his poetry.
Drowning in the Sea of Freedom.

A citizen of nowhere to go

And nothing to do.

Hanging out with Bukowski

And drinking tea.

I should spend more days like this.
The wine flowed from the bottle  

as the words flowed from my pen.

It was my best ever.  

A match for the greats:  

Kipling, Thomas and Henley.

And one that my favourite, Bukowski

Would be happy to say

You matched me today.

I celebrated my masterpiece

With another glass of wine

Before going to bed, joyous

With the feeling I had created

My Magnum Opus.

In the morning I rose,

Clear headed and happy with

The memory of my creation.

I read it again.

It sounded different.  

This was not the splendid verse I recalled.

It was the ramblings of a drunken mind

Bukowski would say

Try again Man

This is a pile of crap.

Suddenly, I had a hangover.
Shotgun, shells
A bottle of whisky

A final burger
The best of Bukowski

Some pills
A line

Vivaldi for the last time

Sorry for
The mess
My first poem uploaded to hellopoetry
Aaron Feb 18
Did Bukowski drink because it gave him the strength to write?
I wonder if he chose to lose the fight
Because freedom mattered more;
I can't keep open the door, but I swear I can see
A deeper light meant for more than me.

It's hilarious how hypocritical I am;
I call you out for your sham
When I'm exactly the same:
I'm each shattered shard I wouldn't tame.

We're a composite of desires and fears
And rhythm and tears
And all the things in between,
A search for the golden mean.
Prolly' incomplete.
For a day, Mr. Bukowski, just a day
take me to the races in your convertible. We'll bet on the losing horse and drink the winners under the table. I won't make you talk about poetry like all the others. Just horses and beer.
The woman downstairs is angry
She asks:
Why do you shut the stars out and not let the moonlight in?
I think, but not say:
Listen *****, the night is bright and bustling
And I just want to ******* sleep
I want to forget the pleasantries and just heal
From the day, the week, the year
Of this seemingly inconvenient life of mine
Hating yourself is easier in the dark
Being hopeful seems easier when nobody is looking
I just want to ******* sleep
Written after reading "Women" by Charles Bukowski
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