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Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

To The Whore Who Took My Poems


some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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Read poems about / on: poetry, poem, money, sick, god, time, sleep

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Comments about this poem (To The Whore Who Took My Poems by Charles Bukowski )

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  • Robert Quilter (10/2/2008 10:02:00 AM)

    from the heart and guts.the only poem i've ever given a 10 to on here.And the image of God crossing his legs and lamenting the lack of poetry, is one that will live with me and very apt. (Report) Reply

  • Oliver Brookshore (10/27/2007 8:56:00 PM)

    Stealing poetry is the same as destroying it, it's as much a part of you as anything else. An great poem, brilliantly written. (Report) Reply

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