This casket, fits all
my hopes and dreams.
They will, all
be buried at dawn
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Thursday 14 April 2011
75
The pretty colours
danced around.
They needed, me
to be seduced.
You need this,
buy me,
life will be better,
“complete in 75 issues”.
Feel satisfied.
danced around.
They needed, me
to be seduced.
You need this,
buy me,
life will be better,
“complete in 75 issues”.
Feel satisfied.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Thursday 7 April 2011
Heroes
Ok I'm going to start to write and post things by my hereos. First up is Mr Charles Bukowski. The first time I picked up a Bukowski book and started to read it, I knew I had found a writer that I would love forever.
I would like to say I emulate Bukowski but I've never been an alcholic so basically I've failed by not being an alcholic. That sounded way more ironic in my head.
Ham on Rye is the quintessential Bukowski book in my eyes. The evolving use of the english language as he grows up is such a simple and beautiful idea. You feel that you are just there the whole time, from when he first spys the sun lighting the kitchen to where he fails college. The way he effortlessy plays off of Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. The book is genius but its consumption of alchol and sexual pervesions will keep it off many peoples' shelves. Their loss then.
His poetry is sublime, he makes look so easy. He described his poetry as
"like taking a shit, you smell it and then flush it away ... writing is all about leaving behind as much a stink as possible". Beautiful.
My only problem with Bukowski is that U2 dedicated a song to him. Absolutley despse Bono and co.
Gotta love Hank Chinaski. A wee Bukowski poem below.
The Tragedy of the Leaves
I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world had failed us
both.
I would like to say I emulate Bukowski but I've never been an alcholic so basically I've failed by not being an alcholic. That sounded way more ironic in my head.
Ham on Rye is the quintessential Bukowski book in my eyes. The evolving use of the english language as he grows up is such a simple and beautiful idea. You feel that you are just there the whole time, from when he first spys the sun lighting the kitchen to where he fails college. The way he effortlessy plays off of Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. The book is genius but its consumption of alchol and sexual pervesions will keep it off many peoples' shelves. Their loss then.
His poetry is sublime, he makes look so easy. He described his poetry as
"like taking a shit, you smell it and then flush it away ... writing is all about leaving behind as much a stink as possible". Beautiful.
My only problem with Bukowski is that U2 dedicated a song to him. Absolutley despse Bono and co.
Gotta love Hank Chinaski. A wee Bukowski poem below.
The Tragedy of the Leaves
I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world had failed us
both.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Sunday 3 April 2011
Dreams of a Life Unfulfilled
I let the distance grow,
now it has, I miss you so
growing more, beautiful
with each passing day.
Eyes shining, the radiance of stars,
hair cascading, like autumnal leaves.
Looking at, the blackhole
of empty desire.
Always dreaming, of us together
hoping that, I won’t wake up
keep the illusion going.
Please DON’T WAKE ME UP.
now it has, I miss you so
growing more, beautiful
with each passing day.
Eyes shining, the radiance of stars,
hair cascading, like autumnal leaves.
Looking at, the blackhole
of empty desire.
Always dreaming, of us together
hoping that, I won’t wake up
keep the illusion going.
Please DON’T WAKE ME UP.
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