Section: «Poems»

Verse (ancient Greek ὁ στίχος — row, structure), a term in versification used in several meanings: artistic speech organized by division into rhythmically commensurate segments; poetry in the narrow sense; in particular, it implies the properties of versification of a particular tradition ("antique verse", "Akhmatova's verse", etc.); a line of poetic text organized according to a certain rhythmic pattern ("My uncle of the most honest rules").

Sleep

she was a short onegetting fat and she had once beenbeautiful andshe drank the wineshe drank the wine in bed andtalked and screamed and cursed..

© Charles Bukowski

Crucifix In A Deathhand

yes, they begin out in a willow, I thinkthe starch mountains begin out in the willowand keep right on going without regard forpumas and..

© Charles Bukowski

The House

They are building a househalf a block downand I sit up herewith the shades downlistening to the sounds,the hammers pounding in nails,thack thack..

© Charles Bukowski

No. 6

I'll settle for the 6 horseon a rainy afternoona paper cup of coffeein my handa little way to go,the wind twirling outsmall wrens fromthe upper..

© Charles Bukowski

Show Biz

I can't have itand you can't have itand we won'tget itso don't bet on itor even think aboutitjust get out of bedeach..

© Charles Bukowski

Luck

oncewe were youngat thismachine...drinkingsmokingtypingit was a mostsplendidmiraculoustimestillisonly nowinstead ofmoving towardtimeitmoves..

© Charles Bukowski

Here I Am ...

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottleof wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages ofpoesyan old manmaddened for the flesh of young..

© Charles Bukowski

Poem For My 43rd Birthday

To end up alonein a tomb of a roomwithout cigarettesor wine--just a lightbulband a potbelly,grayhaired,and glad to havethe room.

© Charles Bukowski

Question And Answer

he sat naked and drunk in a room of summernight, running the blade of the knifeunder his fingernails, smiling, thinkingof all the letters he had..

© Charles Bukowski

Splash

the illusion is that you are simplyreading this poem.the reality is that this ismore than apoem.this is a beggar's knife.this is a tulip.this is a..

© Charles Bukowski

My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant

—he's a dandy—small moustache—usually sucking on a cigarhe tends to lean into cars as hetransacts businessfirst time I met him, he said,"hey! ya..

© Charles Bukowski

What A Writer

what i liked about e.e. cummingswas that he cut away fromthe holiness of thewordand with charmand gamblegave us linesthat sliced through thedung.how..

© Charles Bukowski

My Computer

"what?" they say, "you got acomputer?"it's like I have sold out tothe enemy.I had no idea so manypeople were prejudicedagainstcomputers.even two..

© Charles Bukowski

Paris

nevereven in calmer timeshave I everdreamed ofbicycling through thatcitywearing aberetandCamusalwayspissedmeoff.

© Charles Bukowski

It Was Just A Little While Ago

almost dawnblackbirds on the telephone wirewaitingas I eat yesterday'sforgotten sandwichat 6 a.m.an a quiet Sunday morning.one shoe in the..

© Charles Bukowski

Finished?

the critics now have medrinking champagne anddriving a BMWand also married to asocialite fromPhiladelphia's Main Linewhich of course is going to..

© Charles Bukowski

The Lucky Ones

stuck in the rain on the freeway, 6:15 p.m.,these are the lucky ones, these are thedutifully employed, most with their radios on as loudas possible..

© Charles Bukowski

Working Out

Van Gogh cut off his eargave it to aprostitutewho flung it away inextremedisgust.

© Charles Bukowski

Hello, How Are You?

this fear of being what they are:dead.at least they are not out on the street, theyare careful to stay indoors, thosepasty mad who sit alone before..

© Charles Bukowski

Gamblers All

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,I'm not going to make it, but you laugh insideremembering all the times you've felt that..

© Charles Bukowski

So Now?

the words have come and gone,I sit ill.the phone rings, the cats sleep.Linda vacuums.I am waiting to live,waiting to die.I wish I could ring in some..

© Charles Bukowski

Poetry Reading

poetry readings have to be some of the saddestdamned things ever,the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,week after week, month after month..

© Charles Bukowski

It's Ours

there is always that space therejust before they get to usthat spacethat fine relaxerthe breatherwhile sayflopping on a bedthinking of nothingor..

© Charles Bukowski

Poetry

ittakesa lot ofdesperationdissatisfactionanddisillusiontowriteafewgoodpoems.it's notforeverybodyeither towriteitor even toreadit

© Charles Bukowski

Trapped

don't undress my loveyou might find a mannequin:don't undress the mannequinyou might findmy love.

© Charles Bukowski