it's a very good reading. anything by mr jones .... even those evil verizon commercials... is lovely to hear.

He has a great voice.

thulsa doom. perfect.

Be Kind

 

 

we are always asked

to understand the other person's

viewpoint

no matter how

out-dated

foolish or

obnoxious.

 

one is asked

to view

their total error

their life-waste

with

kindliness,

especially if they are

aged.

 

but age is the total of

our doing.

they have aged

badly

because they have

lived

out of focus,

they have refused to

see.

 

not their fault?

 

whose fault?

mine?

 

I am asked to hide

my viewpoint

from them

for fear of their

fear.

 

age is no crime

 

but the shame

of a deliberately

wasted

life

 

among so many

deliberately

wasted

lives

 

is.

 

Charles Bukowski

Cows In Art Class

 

 

good weather

is like

good women-

it doesn't always happen

and when it does

it doesn't

always last.

man is

more stable:

if he's bad

there's more chance

he'll stay that way,

or if he's good

he might hang

on,

but a woman

is changed

by

children

age

diet

conversation

sex

the moon

the absence or

presence of sun

or good times.

a woman must be nursed

into subsistence

by love

where a man can become

stronger

by being hated.

 

Charles Bukowski

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8TyuFDXSh0&feature=related

It's very fitting to have a poetry sampling in a thread entitled the way this one is

 

Great stuff you two!

 

I really like the discussion that ensues in the book afterwards about which one was more evil, the walrus or the carpenter. Really good moral/ethical questions and arguments made there.

 

@ Ley: enjoying poetry is very much like enoying music, you lose yourself in the composition and let it imprint itself on your soul for a small time. You just have to learn how to be able to appreciate more subtle and exotic flavorings that can be found in poems.

i better stop before i get really dark.

crap.... you know how when you're studying medical texts and you think you have everything you;re learning about?

 

i just came across this, and it's.... distressing.

 

Loneliness is an unpleasant feeling in which a person experiences a strong sense of emptiness and solitude resulting from inadequate levels of social relationships. However, it is a subjective experience.[1] Loneliness has also been described as social pain - a psychological mechanism meant to alert an individual of isolation and motivate her/him to seek social connections.

 

WTF? i can't seek social connections. that's more pain inducing than loneliness.

 

i think i just have to drink more.

We're a social connection, tho. But I'll drink with you. *hugs*

up to a point, yes. but it's a lonely point.

 

*drinks and hugs*

 

and that's where drinking always leads, when not done alone.

you know, not one single thing here has cheered me up at all.

 

existential crisis commencing in 10...9..8...

oh, wait, it was just the drunk posting.

@ Ley: enjoying poetry is very much like enoying music, you lose yourself in the composition and let it imprint itself on your soul for a small time. You just have to learn how to be able to appreciate more subtle and exotic flavorings that can be found in poems.

 

Do they also have poems that are Metal-like? I would give those a try. Then I mean topics as fantasy, and such things.

 

But Metal can be connected better to epic fantasy books like WoT and LotR, I think.

 

What music did you exactly make, Des?

you can write any kind of poems you want, leyrann.

you can write any kind of poems you want, leyrann.

 

Ah, cindy cindy cindy.

 

TASER TIME!

 

 

congrats, Chinaski

 

as I near 70

I get letters, cards, little gifts

from strange people.

congratulations, they tell

me,

congratulations

 

I know what they mean:

the way I have lived

I should have been dead in half

that time

 

I have piled myself with a mass of

grand abuse, been

careless toward myself

almost to the point of

madness,

I am still here

leaning toward this machine

in this smoke-filled room,

this large blue trashcan to my

left

full of empty

containers

 

the doctors have no answers

and the gods are

silent

 

congratulations, death,

on your patience.

I have helped you all that

I can

 

now one more poem

and a walk out on the balcony,

such a fine night there

 

I am dressed in shorts and stockings,

gently scratch my old

belly,

look out there

look off there

where dark meets dark

 

it's been one hell of a crazy

ballgame

 

 

 

from "Third Lung Review" - 1992

 

Bukowski.

 

 

no matter how bad i feel, i read him and i know it can always get worse. and probably will.

hello, how are you?

 

this fear of being what they are:

dead.

 

at least they are not out on the street, they

are careful to stay indoors, those

pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,

their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

 

their ideal neighborhood

of parked cars

of little green lawns

of little homes

the little doors that open and close

as their relatives visit

throughout the holidays

the doors closing

behind the dying who die so slowly

behind the dead who are still alive

in your quiet average neighborhood

of winding streets

of agony

of confusion

of horror

of fear

of ignorance.

 

a dog standing behind a fence.

 

a man silent at the window.

 

 

see above.

 

it's all i'm posting till i find something darker. shawdow days.

here I am ...

 

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle

of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of

poesy

an old man

maddened for the flesh of young girls in this

dwindling twilight

liver gone

kidneys going

pancrea pooped

top-floor blood pressure

 

while all the fear of the wasted years

laughs between my toes

no woman will live with me

no Florence Nightingale to watch the

Johnny Carson show with

 

if I have a stroke I will lay here for six

days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh

from my elbows, wrists, head

 

the radio playing classical music ...

 

I promised myself never to write old man poems

but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-

cause I've long gone past using myself and there's

still more left

here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from

the typer

pour another glass and

insert

make love to the fresh new whiteness

 

maybe get lucky

again

 

first for

me

 

later

for you.

 

from "All's Normal Here" - 1985

magical mystery tour

 

I am in this low-slung sports car

painted a deep, rich yellow

driving under an Italian sun.

I have a British accent.

I'm wearing dark shades

an expensive silk shirt.

there's no dirt under my

fingernails.

the radio plays Vivaldi

and there are two women with

me

one with raven hair

the other a blonde.

they have small breasts and

beautiful legs

and they laugh at everything I

say.

 

as we drive up a steep road

the blonde squeezes my leg

and nestles closer

while raven hair

leans across and nibbles my

ear.

 

we stop for lunch at a quaint

rustic inn.

there is more laughter

before lunch

during lunch and after

lunch.

 

after lunch we will have a

flat tire on the other side of

the mountain

and the blonde will change the

tire

while

raven hair

photographs me

lighting my pipe

leaning against a tree

the perfect background

perfectly at peace

with

sunlight

flowers

clouds

birds

everywhere.

ok, so i searched for "happy poems," cause iw as even bringing myself down here.

 

 

and the very first hit, at poemhunter.com, was full of the most bitter, awful, depressing, and badly written garbage i've ever read.

 

so...

 

sorry.

 

 

and just be happy. might as well.

Really like the title of this thread o-o

sarcasm or darkness? little of both?