I have been reading a Bukowski collection called Play the piano drunk like a percussion instrument until the fingers begin to bleed a bit and it is an interesting mix of what we think of when we think of poetry and also some narrative-like pieces. Some of them are as quintessentially reprobate as we always expect from Bukowski (like “fire station” wherein he pimps out the woman he is with without her knowing), while others have that jagged and beautiful sorrow that nobody else seems to be able to do quite as well.
It is a kind of travesty to read a poem and then just go, “Oh I love these two lines!” but I am going to do it anyway.
These are some of the bits I’ve enjoyed the most:
-
torn by a temporary wind
we come back together again
-
what kind of shit is
this?
it’s so easy to be a poet
and so hard to be
a man.
-
we came out of the bar
because we were out of money
but we had a couple of wine bottles
in the room.
-
I’ve learned to feel good when
I feel good.
-
there is a mirror behind the
bar.
the reflections are not
kind.
-
the ladies of summer will love
so long as the price is not
forever
-
I sit at the window
with her electric typewriter
and watch young girls’ asses
which are attached to
young girls
-
eyes like a Russian pianist
-
it irritated me to be almost murdered by a
fool in a sequin jacket
-
the boxing matches and the racetracks are
temples of learning
-
you son of a bitch, she said, I am
trying to build a meaningful
relationship.
you can’t build it with a hammer,
he said.
-
high lonely drunken grin of grief
I love you
-
I am dying of sadness and alcohol
he said to me over the bottle
on a soft Thursday afternoon
in an old hotel room by the train depot.
I have, he went on, betrayed myself with
belief, deluded myself with love
tricked myself with sex.
the bottle is damned faithful, he said,
the bottle will not lie.
meat is cut as roses are cut
men die as dogs die
love dies like dogs die,
he said.
listen, Ronny, I said,
lend me 5 dollars.
.
.
.
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