You're a beast, she said
your big white belly
and those hairy feet.
you never cut your nails
and you have fat hands
paws like a cat
your bright red nose
and the biggest balls
I've ever seen.
You shoot sperm like a
whale shoots water out of the
hole in its back.
Beast beast beast,
she kissed me,
what do you want for
breakfast?
She sits up there
drinking wine
while her husband
is at work.
She puts quite
some importance
upon getting her
poems published
in the little
magazines.
She's had two or
three of her slim
volumes of poems
done in mimeo.
She has two or
three children
between the ages
of 6 and 15.
She is no longer
the beautiful woman
she was. She sends
photos of herself
sitting upon a rock
by the ocean
alone and damned.
I could have had
her once. I wonder
if she thinks I
could have
saved her?
In all her poems
her husband is
never mentioned.
But she does
talk about her
garden
so we know that's
there, anyhow,
and maybe she
fucks the rosebuds
and finches
before she writes
her poems.
The area dividing the brain and the soul
is affected in many ways by
experience —
some lose all mind and become soul:
insane.
some lose all soul and become mind:
intellectual.
some lose both and become:
accepted.
"I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn’t have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone." Charles Bukowski
Just give me a little atomic bomb
Not too mutch just a little
Enough to kill a horse in the street
But there aren't any horses in the street
Enough to knock the flowers from a bowl
But I don't see any flowers in a bowl
Enough then to frigthen my love
But I don't have any love
Well give me an atomic bomb then to scrub in my bathtub
like a dirty and lovable child
I've got a bathtub
Just a little bomb general
With pugnose
Pink ears
Smelling like underclothes in July
Do you think I'm crazy?
I think your crazy too
So the way you think.
Send me one before somebody else does.
"Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now."
"Beber é algo emocional. Faz com que você saia da rotina do dia-a-dia, impede que tudo seja igual. Arranca você pra fora do seu corpo e de sua mente e joga contra a parede. Eu tenho a impressão de que beber é uma forma de suicídio onde você é permitido voltar à vida e começar tudo de novo no dia seguinte. É como se matar e renascer. Acho que eu já vivi cerca de dez ou quinze mil vidas."
Some people never go crazy.
Me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
They'll find me there.
It's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
Then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
Some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
Dia frouxo. Entrei na piscina de hidromassagem com um boa-vida. O sol estava brilhando e a água borbulhava e fazia redemoinhos, quente. Relaxei. Por que não? Dê um tempo. Tente se sentir melhor. O mundo inteiro é um saco de merda se rasgando. Não posso salvá-lo. Mas recebi muitas cartas de pessoas que disseram que meus livros salvaram suas vidas. Mas não escrevi para isso, escrevi para salvar a minha própria vida. Sempre estive por fora, nunca me adaptei. Descobri isso nos pátios das escolas. E outra coisa que aprendi foi que eu aprendia muito devagar. Os outros caras sabiam tudo; eu não sabia merda nenhuma. Tudo estava imerso em uma luz branca e estonteante. Eu era um idiota. No entanto, mesmo quando eu era um idiota, sabia que não era um idiota completo. Eu tinha algum cantinho em mim que eu estava protegendo, havia alguma coisa lá. Não importa. Aqui estava eu na piscina e minha vida estava terminando. Não me importava, já tinha visto o circo. Ainda assim, sempre haverá mais coisas para escrever até que me atirem na escuridão ou seja o que for. Isso é que é legal sobre as palavras, permanece indo em frente, buscando coisas, formando frases, se divertindo. Eu estava cheio de palavras e elas ainda saíam em boa forma. Eu tinha sorte. Na piscina. Garganta ruim, dor de cabeça, eu tinha sorte. Velho escritor na piscina, meditando. Legal, legal. Mas o inferno está sempre lá, esperando para se abrir.
