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croob Dec 2018
can you separate the art from the *****
old man, and what does it say about me
that i can? to revel in depravity,
without a speck of gravity,
to turn grotesqueness into art
is to win my filthy heart.
Shiloh Reeves Aug 2018
Failed again; only this time I lose everything, including my mind.
I plan to wake tomorrow with the intention of trying again.

Your life is your life,
Don't let it be clubbed into dank submission.

I know some "thing" is watching, listening closely.
"It," sends me hope through whispers, whispers only I can hear.
I am scrutinized, ostracized, berated for even paying attention to "that thing."

I am hurt. I want to quit. But I lost everything already, what more do I have to lose?

I act again. I try again. I fail again.
I've given myself the piece of advice to: hold these failures close to my heart. They will pave the way. One stepping stone after another.

You will ride life into perfect laughter.
A poem inspired by the late great Charles Bukowski. Please enjoy and stay driven.
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
you didn't deserve the poems you wrote

born of your suffering

dragged from fractured yesterdays

nor did they deserve you

letting you down on the cold dank streets

refusing to warm your cold blue blood


borrowing words you never paid back

you owed each other nothing

except companionship for what it was worth

For what you were worth


There you were, an odd pair

two legs on an upturned stool

unstable

rummaging this life for a good line


you could have done without the dereliction

the destruction of the foundation of youth

dodging wrecking ***** aimed at your head

the head wreckers and headhunters

the scalp wreckers and scalp hunters


a bottle of ruby down a parched throat

a smoke to fill the grateful lungs

women to wash your long nights down

they were your proudest boast


You didn't deserve the poems you wrote

Nor did they deserve you

Yet such is companionship

strange bedfellows

slipping between the sheets and a good line
A tribute to Charles Bukowski
Dakota J Dawson Apr 2018
P.1
The crowd sings a tune
Most dreadful
Malice

It is with steel
Cold retribution
Uneven fire

That he shall die

P.2
Formalities unsecured
Royalty disbanded

Speech said
Hostility silenced
Peace has come

P.3
A hairpiece
Eyes an unnatural shade of blue
Hands reaching for a god

Face unsure
Blade ready
Head severed

P.4
Without God
Tangible mercy
England is set free

Gold to ash
Mind to dirt
Heir to none
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)

Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition

generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid

for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets

to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to ******
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
page number two:

fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,

via unspoken mandate, and
thence subsequently, when receiving
presents galore, tis incumbent to craft
sincere polite thank you note
(written in calligraphy if possibly)
to evince real or feigned gratitude
despite The Battle of Life travails
and, whenever possibly necessarily
over spending monetary reserves
setting stage for Bleak House
after festivities subside,

whence welcoming return to employ
ment to garner green legal tender
to stave off Hard Times glad to
cease hearing annoying renditions
qua A Christmas Carol, and visiting
countless theaters enduring
legions of young actors and or
actresses portray the saga of Oliver Twist
a disadvantaged indigent boy
(given up by his mum),

and grudgingly accepted in an
Almshouse, where his early existence
mirrored unfair cruelty, whereat
Master of the deprived ladelled
thin gruel only one ration, a worse
perdition than death, this measly diet
lacked minimal nutrition, The Battle of Life.

This American Notes a disproportionate
concentration to reach out to those less fortunate
particularly Thanksgiving and Xmas
which effort laudable, yet a diminution
for succor such as: triumph over adversity
sustenance, accommodations seems
to muffle The Chimes remaining
three hundred and some odd or even days.
Elizabeth Oct 2017
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the **** heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.
“These birds are the most singular of any in the Galapagos.”
                                                     ­              Charles Darwin.

Volcanic up swell,
tick mark,
tiny dot in the middle
of a blue map.

Stationary ship,
belly of the earth
like a backstroke swimmer
in a blue-black sea,

where erratic rains run away
while a Cactus Finch (Scandens) has gone
black to mate, so black that shadows cast

blushes back.  So black,
more silhouette
than a black beaked bird

Daphne,
on your barred black belly,
this fine breath’d bird, this

penumbra of feathers and flight;
demonstrating divergence and drift,
so proud he sings aloud

the song of the Ground Finch (Fortis). 
O befuddled bird
bereft an opera coach,

sans score  of Scandens,  the bird song
bindery gone  bankrupt,  loose leaf
scores littered, learning a  neighbor’s
second hand sheet music.

 Amid the volcanic dreams
of Finches, and bird shaped voids, 
singing atop cacti, amid these small
dark commas  set against  a bluer
than blue sky,  he sings the wrong song

 but it's been a good year  and she comes,
the star crossed lover, Lady Fortis.

And before the rains return, and they will return,
                  a small clutch of stars.

And when the rains return,

             they will return
                                  with long lost letters from London.
A poem about Darwin's FInches
Ryan Hoysan Oct 2017
This poem is originally written by my favorite poet, Charles Bukowski. .

they're not going to let you
sit at a front table
at some cafe in Europe
in the mid-afternoon sun.
if you do, somebody's going to
drive by and
spray your guts with a
submachine gun.

they're not going to let you
feel good
for very long
anywhere.
the forces aren't going to
let you sit around
*******-off and
relaxing.
you've got to go
their way.

the unhappy, the bitter and
the vengeful
need their
fix - which is
you or somebody
anybody
in agony, or
better yet
dead, dropped into some
hole.

as long as there are
humans about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth or
anywhere else
they might
escape to.

all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.

something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you.
I came across this poem in a book of his poems and I discovered it wasn't on this site. As it is very relevant to my life right now I thought to share it with the rest of the community. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Messages and comments are welcome as always.
Charles Sturies Sep 2017
Gallman
Baunan
Leann Taliaferrus?
(promised Tolliver, Taliaferro, i.e.)
1- a pro football player
2- probably what she was known as in her clique
2- referring to Mike Taliaferro, a U or I football player (probably Italian Spanish) and hotsy totsy I heard Leanna Baunan maiden name from Champaign
4- referring to the last nae of a (I heard) dead end kind of Leann's rough youth neighborhood
I came to agree with Charles Darwin
When my eyes opened wider as I came of age
And I saw how the world worked
Realizing that it was deeper than what people said
About my race in life being unique from my neighbour’s
And what my religion teaches
Coupled with the enormous faith it demanded
Asking me not to question the obscure answers
But life remains what it is and the truth remains the truth
Although it could be heartbreaking if misunderstood

Life has always been a cryptic puzzle
Destined to be deciphered step by step
To be understood little by little across generations
One continuing where the previous stopped
This was the birth of philosophy and science
Bodies of rebellion that seek
To answer the questions and question the answers
Why in the track of life, evil travelled faster than good

I came to agree with Charles Darwin
When I looked at life and saw that it was indeed
A ring where only the fittest survived
So what hope was there for the weak?
    what hope …………..for the weak?
And a voice answered saying
Faith! They will believe and hold on to their belief
Their prayers and belief may or may not become
But they will be comforted by their belief
In the things they can feel but do not see

This life too is full of malpractice
And the righteous are at a disadvantage
The world is also full of unkindness
That when the kind bends to help a fallen one
Get back on his feet, he gets kicked
On the head by the same person he elated
And he would look back to a cruel memory seeing
That his kindness was a ladder
With which he elevated his Judas
The world is a place where one becomes pragmatic
even with kindness
To avoid being kicked in the head

The journey to our heart desires is a race
The world is racing away with everything good
Only the strong and opportune wrestle enough from her
In this continuous race that never ends
Some people fall off by the road side
And kindness could be a weakness to the needed focus
But everyday a miracle happens, people take chances
To uplift others, defying the law of nature
Yet there are casualties

I came to agree with Charles Darwin when I saw it
That life was this programmed race track
That thrived on the principle of survival of the fittest
And evolving into this state of mind,
I have seen that evolution
Is not only what I see in my biology textbooks
But it was the principle that guided life.
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