14 July 2011

Charles Bukowski Is Dead


The fossilized remains of Bukowski

Washed up on the Santa Monica shore

They held a procession for them

And in the farmers market

His remains were divided

Among the flute players and lovers

Who blew their hollow horns

With soft mewling sounds

Whilst wiping honest sweat

From tear stained eyes

In the baking furnace

Of contradictions, no contradictions

Of passions spent, and passions lent

Smothering their innocent pretence

With fearsome glamorous intentions

Each helping themselves to his pieces

And handling them like hot rocks

Popped them into their charnel mouths

So to speak the tongues of angels

But nothing of sense came out;

“This is a nice vintage Bukowski

With a good fruity bouquet

And pleasant lingering aftertaste

Of plum and cherryade liqueur”

But the pieces soon turned to ashes

In their dried and blackened mouths

And the bitter taste of idiocy

Left no ironic stone unturned

There was no savor in this dish

For you see, Charles Bukowski is dead



  1. Yeah, and you're one of them! You'd sell your soul in a minute to have your name in the same light. Liar!

  2. I'd be happy to have a tenth of Bukowski's talent, but I'll never stand in the faint light cast by copycats and impersonators. Neither will I descend into the bitter world of sneer and smear occupied by my sarcastic anonymouse friend here. If my little poem is about anything, it is about the likes of him. What's it like down there Mr Anonymouse? Do you feel as small as you look?

  3. So very well put. Thank you for not bowing to the childishness of the occasional lurker, and thus keeping the spirit of Bukowski alive.
    ~Please keep up the good work~


  4. Thank you for your encouragement Christopher. I think if Bukowski was to deliver a message it would simply be to be ourselves, what is the point in being anything else?