I've spent some time at Santa Anita Park. Watched my niece's graduation ceremony there. Placed a few bets. I hate horse races. Drive past it everyday for work and going to the mall. It's a beautiful place with a beautiful view of Mt. Wilson.
last nite, i've been drinking too, seating lonely in my two-room apartment in downtown Nantes, France, until something walked across my floor... it was no cat for I don't want to look like a secluded old chap, I dont want to be weakened by such warm entity, i'd rather to to hell with sheer madness in my soul and mind... anyway, something came across my floor... and it was a spider... this I can deal with, I said to myself.* *
walking across the
oh, it's just
.................love the ending it gave me a laugh...
I didn't expect that....excellent write
.......and an awesome poem! ! !
Bukowski knew and expressed the heavy part of life as well as anyone could. This poem is a picture, some will see its meaning, and some will not. Either way it goes to a deeper place, and speaks honestly.
When in my lowest stock of wine and praise
I just content myself with this cheap beer
And wish in some hotel I with my raise
In yuletide, enjoying a good cheer;
But most I get from work that I contend,
Is reprimand from bossy chief and staff,
And scorn from lady love whom I pretend,
To have, when all I get from her is chaff;
And thinking of this love, this love of fools,
That no angel finds worthy of a cent,
Spit out, might I, in any of my drools,
And wonder how my glossy life have went;
.... Seeing your face, and hearing your tirade,
.... I might with bandits give my life to trade.
Wow, he is just incredible, such simplicity comes through him when he expresses his emotion, simplicity and play with the words, his whole state of being, yet the heaviness he carries with him you can feel to the bone. He is brilliant. I love his work. Rest in peace Charles Burkowski. Thank you for sharing your amazing talent and your life.. [3
Sure he was. Later him life he boasted about switching to 'natural' wine, as opposed to the skid-row stuff, like Midnight Train, et al that he was used to, and died in Tucson (I think) of cirrhossis anyway.
the beauty of Bukowski is that he is a master of crafting words that Everyman can relate to. That heavy side of life that you'd find talking to any person suffering through life is so present in this poem. You don't have to have watched a person suffer through the ravages of Cancer to comprehend this. Fighting is tiresome, even if the demons are self inflicted. This is just great writing. Its not covered in perfume, or redundant cerebral metaphors. it simply is what it is!