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pulling off a bukowski
I don't want to pull off a Bukowski.
He was such an unhappy man
He had nothing but his
(He has me beat there)
He saw the worst in
He loved nothing but his
He only found serenity within his
Everybody Wants to Be BukowskiMy friend J was just fired
from her job teaching philosophy
at a small Catholic university
for not wearing her mortarboard,
for defending the rights of prostitutes,
for drinking Cuervo in the beds of pickup
trucks in the shadow of the Alamo,
for kicking out the jams, for taking
young guitar players and old professors
I tried to tell her months ago, once
you join the tweed brigade and hang
letters from your ass, that's it --
no more scromping in the dirt,
no more rockabilly stomp,
no more flights to Amsterdam,
Huntsville, Toronto, New York,
no more busking in the subway,
no more lean taut dreameyed
poet boys, no more manufactured
Everybody wants to be
Bukowski, but nobody wants
to pay for the poetry. We all
want to be drunken heroes,
call ourselves angels and saints
and scoundrels, but we want it
delivered to our doors, no muss,
no fuss, no pain, no blood,
It doesn't work like that.
It never has.
You can't be Byron without
Augusta and the clubfoot;
For BukowskiLeaving so soon? It's
okay - we've come to expect it.
Visit every so often. Send a letter signed with a heart.
Every one will be placed unopened in the top drawer.
Answers are only excuses.
Genuine expressions of what we want to be.
Faded, tired, we finally
only to find that every day is another performance.
Marvelous! (the crowd cheers.)
Here is what they've come for.
last one of them. They don't want your
love, they want your pain. No one ever leaves disappointed.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More