Poetry competition CLOSED 20th July 2013 8:15pm
WINNER
JohnFeddeler
JohnFeddeler
Charles Bukowski
Poetry Contest Description
Write about Charles Bukowski
My fellow Bukowski fans,
This one's for you! Write a poem or a short story about Buk. If you choose to write a short story, please keep it under 1000 words unless you think it's good enough to hold my attention throughout. Whilst I am not requiring it and ol' "Hank" would have most likely despised you for doing it and me for promoting it, you'll score some bonus points with me if you write your piece in a Bukowski-esque style. You've got a week. Have fun!
Gemini
EDIT: For those of you who are not very knowledgeable about Buk and need to do a bit of research for your write, here is a link to a thread dedicated to him right here on DU:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/poetry/read/1707/
This one's for you! Write a poem or a short story about Buk. If you choose to write a short story, please keep it under 1000 words unless you think it's good enough to hold my attention throughout. Whilst I am not requiring it and ol' "Hank" would have most likely despised you for doing it and me for promoting it, you'll score some bonus points with me if you write your piece in a Bukowski-esque style. You've got a week. Have fun!
Gemini
EDIT: For those of you who are not very knowledgeable about Buk and need to do a bit of research for your write, here is a link to a thread dedicated to him right here on DU:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/poetry/read/1707/
bukowskites? bukksketeers? (not exactly a tribute)
raise a glass for the bukkis
who like to accidentally drop ash in the pages
so future readers know
a poet owned this book
a toast to the lonely company
he has something
in his eyes
but it might just be dust
he knows what his eyes do and uses them sparingly
he has a brow darkened with the sweat of thinking
back aching from holding up his world
and holding off all the others' worlds
which are duller
predictable
and dying in such a sterile way they might as well live
forever
he likes women because of course he does
falls for abstracts
which he dresses in improbable heels and waist cinchers
lipstick like in the old movies
that doesnt wash off
like his dirt, his man dirt
smells like hunting
after the requisite fifth of whatever
he has something in his kiss
which we call deception
but really
it's love
raise a glass for the bukkis
who like to accidentally drop ash in the pages
so future readers know
a poet owned this book
a toast to the lonely company
he has something
in his eyes
but it might just be dust
he knows what his eyes do and uses them sparingly
he has a brow darkened with the sweat of thinking
back aching from holding up his world
and holding off all the others' worlds
which are duller
predictable
and dying in such a sterile way they might as well live
forever
he likes women because of course he does
falls for abstracts
which he dresses in improbable heels and waist cinchers
lipstick like in the old movies
that doesnt wash off
like his dirt, his man dirt
smells like hunting
after the requisite fifth of whatever
he has something in his kiss
which we call deception
but really
it's love
Wasted
The worst lies
Are the ones we tell ourselves
Elegant lies
This alcoholic poet
Glorifying yeast piss
Crude as a hammer to the head
Describing truth
While ignoring his own
A genius with vomit on his chin
Mayberry's Otis to the poetry world
The whole time justifying
His self inflicted slavery
Alcohol's gimp
A monkey chained to spirits
With its cup always sticking out
The knowledge of knowing he's better
than everyone else around him
Coupled with lack of willpower to prove it
So raise a glass and bid
on the shit stained underwear of
Charles Bukowski
Never a wasted a word
just a wasted body
The worst lies
Are the ones we tell ourselves
Elegant lies
This alcoholic poet
Glorifying yeast piss
Crude as a hammer to the head
Describing truth
While ignoring his own
A genius with vomit on his chin
Mayberry's Otis to the poetry world
The whole time justifying
His self inflicted slavery
Alcohol's gimp
A monkey chained to spirits
With its cup always sticking out
The knowledge of knowing he's better
than everyone else around him
Coupled with lack of willpower to prove it
So raise a glass and bid
on the shit stained underwear of
Charles Bukowski
Never a wasted a word
just a wasted body
I hope there's cigarettes in later
A life lived to the brim
filled with women with kind eyes
and truths no man should know
And love
and love
and love
Just to see if it would change the way he could forget what he had seen
He drank away his days and pissed them out in ink
Some say he wasted life
Some would say he lived
In alleys, rooms and roaches eyes
He lived
He smoked, he drank, he fucked, he fought, he loved but most of all he lived
while we planned to do the same
He saw loneliness in hands of clocks and held them in his own
He woke in gutters
He woke in cloudy beds
He woke some from open eyes
And the ink of my pen still mourns the day he wouldn't
A life lived to the brim
filled with women with kind eyes
and truths no man should know
And love
and love
and love
Just to see if it would change the way he could forget what he had seen
He drank away his days and pissed them out in ink
Some say he wasted life
Some would say he lived
In alleys, rooms and roaches eyes
He lived
He smoked, he drank, he fucked, he fought, he loved but most of all he lived
while we planned to do the same
He saw loneliness in hands of clocks and held them in his own
He woke in gutters
He woke in cloudy beds
He woke some from open eyes
And the ink of my pen still mourns the day he wouldn't
Not your style, but with you in mind Hank ...
I do I am
I snore I lust
I dream I rust
I fart I laugh
I eat I need
I drink I joke
I smoke I think
I read I piss
I write I shit
I spew I doubt
I love I live
I hate I lie
I fuck I die
I work I look
I bleed I touch
I fight I stay
S
I do I am
I snore I lust
I dream I rust
I fart I laugh
I eat I need
I drink I joke
I smoke I think
I read I piss
I write I shit
I spew I doubt
I love I live
I hate I lie
I fuck I die
I work I look
I bleed I touch
I fight I stay
S
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
the cunt meets the cock
slovenly and drunk
there are always whores
embittered by early
lack of attention
spoiled by the vicissitudes of fame
i'm not quite as bad as i'd have you think
chinaski was a partial fiction
i took the worst of me and
made it a whole
my own drinking slowed
i stopped craving new cunt
married and got old
slovenly and drunk
there are always whores
embittered by early
lack of attention
spoiled by the vicissitudes of fame
i'm not quite as bad as i'd have you think
chinaski was a partial fiction
i took the worst of me and
made it a whole
my own drinking slowed
i stopped craving new cunt
married and got old
‘not much poetry’
days I spent pumping gas at a buck forty an hour.
nights I couldn’t afford to get drunk, when a shot
of whiskey would save my soul but the bottle was
loaded with blanks. so I would talk my poems to
an ugly woman at the bar, and in her gratitude and
vanity she would foot my liquor bill.
I write of the street. and Bukowski wrote of the street.
Bukowski loved women so that he could write. always
about the women. and sometimes about love. Charles
endured. and if I had his insight, maybe I could sell
this garbage.
the night passes bitterly in the company of ugliness and
poems that are absent of poetry. and the sun rises early
when you must pump gas.
That "Itch For Solitude"
I've been a loner since my first breathe,
maybe never suicidal but nevertheless
I've been depressed, deprived of course.
Beyond all I left my room feeling awful
thinking why the world bothers me,
when it was I who asked to be left
alone to ponder my existence once more.
That "terrible itch for solitude" even
in the most appropriate settings like at
a party for a dear friend, but all I
could think of was being alone again.
And it is true that the strongest of
men are the most alone, maybe that's
something worth cheering for.
Not even a beautiful redhead can cure
my blues but at least I enjoyed myself.
What would I want to do out on a
Friday night when I can stay home
watching television alone. What a life,
I can easily entertain myself I declare,
well I might be kind of boring but what
is boring to a man with thick hair on
his back wearing super short shorts?
I guess I can drink more wine if it
comes to it, I've been known to laugh.
What about the beach, do I dare be
around all those bodies? Let me think,
I just remembered, I just cleaned out
my bathtub last week, time for a swim.
I've been a loner since my first breathe,
maybe never suicidal but nevertheless
I've been depressed, deprived of course.
Beyond all I left my room feeling awful
thinking why the world bothers me,
when it was I who asked to be left
alone to ponder my existence once more.
That "terrible itch for solitude" even
in the most appropriate settings like at
a party for a dear friend, but all I
could think of was being alone again.
And it is true that the strongest of
men are the most alone, maybe that's
something worth cheering for.
Not even a beautiful redhead can cure
my blues but at least I enjoyed myself.
What would I want to do out on a
Friday night when I can stay home
watching television alone. What a life,
I can easily entertain myself I declare,
well I might be kind of boring but what
is boring to a man with thick hair on
his back wearing super short shorts?
I guess I can drink more wine if it
comes to it, I've been known to laugh.
What about the beach, do I dare be
around all those bodies? Let me think,
I just remembered, I just cleaned out
my bathtub last week, time for a swim.