many men- unfortunately aren’t anything

Of those fifty guys in the room, probably fifteen of them thought they were writers. Almost everybody used words and could write them down , i.e., almost everybody could be a writer. But most men, fortunately, aren’t writers or even the can drivers, and some men – many men- unfortunately aren’t anything.

-Bukowski
Factotum

View on Path

Agued

Burning eyes

      not so comfortable forehead

            Alternative Grammies.

 
Pinstriped woollen arms

      Shiny golden pens

            And tunnel vision focus

 

Hauntings, of peacocks

      Faint strong feeling

            around the knuckles.

 

Counting days

      to the spiritual milestones

            to Sufism and Ajmer.

 

Blue scarf covering naked legs

      lost tinkle of tambourine

            Republic strums of guitar.

 

Peeping through wooden planks

      below, water thumping

            swaying  to a symphony.

 

Couldn’t get caffeine

      so late at night

            Jupiter shiny in sky

 

Defending Joyce, over pratas.

      Ulysses the cat, oxford commas

             Modern weekend vampires.

 
Bicycle with punctured tyres

      Forlorn, yet independent

            smiling green vines – neighbours

 

French priestess, evangelising ?

      Chinese red horses, running astray.

            Illuminated and advertised.

 

Momentarily lost in Kandahar, street

      Lying awake in arabian nights

            Hookah smokes intoxicating

 

Russian vodka shots

      Icy margaritas, like fruit punches

            Shining LED. Dancing in unison

 

sailing on the couch,

      Noiseless landing, purblind.

            Lost blue flannel shirt .

 

Half finished bitter ciders

      Better use apple

            for strudels and pies

 

Wirelessly controlled bulbs

      Singing colours

            like hallucinated chameleons

 

Faint remembrance

      Fading away

            Sense of an ending

 

Insomniac check ins

      Running to stand still

            Riding wild horses

 

Psalm 33:17

      Horse – a vain hope of deliverance

            1984 : Ignorance is strength ?

 

A carpenter walked on water

      A hermit unaware and innocent

            Faith meeting beside the sea-side

 

Transparent cube,

      White horse silent and sure

            Storm nowhere at horizon.

Amusing ourselves to death

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny “failed to take into account man’s almost infinite appetite for distractions”. In 1984, Huxley added, people are controlled by inflicting pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us.

via Amusing ourselves to death.

But don’t write poetry

Posted: Thu Mar 08, 2007 12:41 pm

Go to Tibet
Ride a camel.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a beard.
Circle the world in a paper canoe.
Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post.
Chew on the left side of your mouth only.
Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.
And carve her name in her arm.

Brush your teeth with gasoline.
Sleep all day and climb trees at night.
Hold your head under water and play the violin.
Do a belly dance before pink candles.
Kill your dog.
Run for mayor.
Live in a barrel.
Break your head with a hatchet.
Plant tulips in the rain.

But don’t write poetry.

– Charles Bukowski

Rise

In cold dark nights as these
When the knight inside
Falls supine
Tried and tired

When Phoenix loses
It’s will to revive.
When all hopes
And dreams
Lay strewn on ground defeated .

When the quotes
By old men seem to be
Nothing more than words

Remember remember
The olden days
Of unfailing will ,
Of unfallen heroes ,
Of rising sun ,
Of waning darkness ,
Of undying faith ,
Of buoying ambition ,
Of “fortis adiuuat fortuna”,
Of “illegitimi non carborundum”,

For the sun will shine
Sunshine – bright and high
For the knight will revive
And Phoenix will rise
And then thou shalt
Face them all !
Fight them all !
Defeat them all !

I gave up readi…

I gave up reading long ago.
At one time my house was full of half-read books. That’s as disgusting as people who eat one piece of foie gras and throw the rest away.

– Camus
The Fall

Dostoevsky by Bukowski

20131022-014418.jpg

against the wall, the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn’t have
mattered
not directly.
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
will.
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
past the whores,
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
place.
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
derelicts,
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a
reprieve,
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
rancid faces
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
my
brothers.

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