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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.

i refuse
to let go of my

...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


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

no matter
he's been through, or


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.

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
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
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
We've started with
the training pads and
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


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,


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


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
Guss Oct 2023
Gustav Wolfgang
600 S. Graves St.
McKinney 69, Texas

               The Damnation of Non-Invisibility

the damnation of non-invisibility:
this is where even

and all that heart,
and where she came from
that horrible thing-

bends you down
to the highest bidder;
the ***** she said
you weren’t.

boys, i’m here to tell you
it’s a ******* crucible.

getting where you need to go
never getting anywhere
or anything;

but finding resting
***** face,
every single place you go-

be easy,
once your little hands find earth,
there’s no going back;

remember what you mean to carve
into those dank ****** walls
and know;
that the gods that put you here
once were good to us;

and that it is not the act you watch right now
that defines a thing;
most especially,
not you.
adaptation of  bukow skies first recorded poem - be offended - his last was telling and its not lost on you; right?
Leocardo Reis Sep 2022
my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.
Jae Elle May 2022
I could make up some aesthetic intro
about how the rain is falling
& how the air tastes
but they’ve read it all at least
a thousand times,
at least.

it’s “spring” in Kansas and it’s rainy
& cold as **** for May
not much poetic about it unless
you’re like Shirley Manson
I guess
storms used to terrify me but
now I adore them;
transient and full of intensity
& beautifully


I haven’t really tried to write in so long
I had to force myself to pry open
the dusty laptop --
only because I knew I’d be too impatient
putting thoughts with pen
onto paper

I get why Buk relied on his typewriter
I just wish I had his mental fortitude to write
through complete writer’s block
at the edge of my
wit’s end

the world has not improved, as we kind of
all suspected
the supreme court is dipping their toes
into overturning roe. vs. wade

& all in the midst of the worst inflation
I’ve ever seen
(and a formula shortage)
it’s all a stage and we’ve all been
the puppets for years

but the fourth wall is coming down,
albeit slowly.

I wonder what he would have had to say about it.

enough, I’m sure.
Sandman Nov 2021
Eternal silence
Before the breaking light

The trees outside
With all their color
With all my color
Tumbling down
Into black and white

A sinking feeling
Origin unknown
Fleeting dreams
(Some mine, some not)
Absurdity moves through us

Random thoughts collecting
In the gutters of my mind

Concealed within a single teardrop
Falling from a roof top
The final step
The last breath
GaryFairy Oct 2021

**** you!

Why was I "born into this"?
Sorry, I thought it was going to be longer

There is no doubt that he was a gifted man that lived and died for a reason. Maybe the reason is becoming clearer to some, and not important to others. Such is life.
Salvador Kent Oct 2021
The last time we spoke you told me
That you were reading a book called
and you also told me that you missed
Digging your fingers into my bedsheets
Or the naked skin of my back

And I remembered this today in the bookshop
When staring at me from the shelf was
in my right hand was selected poetry
By a filthy man called THE PLEASURES OF
THE ****** and I thought **** me
I haven’t thought of you in a while

Perhaps as a fleeting mention
Or the **** of a joke but Christ
Here I am thinking of you sitting on your bed
In the evenings, having come home
From studying books all day like
A smart ****** sitting on your bed and reading

So I picked up a copy to go with
My Bukowski and walked to the counter
In a sombre mood, because I’d thought of you
The last thing you ever bought me
Was Bukowski, you bought me
During my last stay in your arms
Cradling caressing and ******* like lovers

I walked out the bookshop
With two new books and a feeling
You get when you recall a fleeting memory
Coupled with **** me this is what happens
To my poetry when I read Charles Bukowski.
I wonder how you are, if you finished it
What did you think? And staring at
Text thrown up onto a screen I think
This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever written.
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