bukowski poetry

I don’t know what these poets are trying to prove

with their ostentatious words, and allusions to Paris,

when all I want is somebody to tell me

they are lonely like me, and don’t know shit like me,

yet, here they are, typing away,

finding profoundity in a peach

and lacing together French philosophy and science

like dual dildos at an ice cream party,

and so i don’t read poetry; it depresses me

in a way few arts do, but for some reason i keep writing it

and telling people I am lonely and don’t know shit,

never have and never will, but I love it when

somebody buys me a taco;

and they will say this is not poetry

is pornography, and i will not argue back;

i will not wage war with white ghosts

who never listen;

instead, i will keep on writing

what i write to myself,

and smiling 

because at least i know it’s mine.

As the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you’ve created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
—  Charles Bukowski, As the Poems Go

Bukowski | 40x50cm | Graphite on paper

More of my art:
www.beyond-creation.com
www.christianklute.com
Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest

If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.

Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.


If you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it.


If you’re doing it because you want women in your bed,
 don’t do it.

If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
 don’t do it.

If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, 
then wait patiently.

If it never does roar out of you,
 do something else.



Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, 

unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.

Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.

When it is truly time,
 and if you have been chosen, It will do it by itself

and it will keep on doing it until you die 

or it dies in you.

There is no other way.



And there never was.

Charles Bukowski

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous
because we’d never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ve told
us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “her, print her, she’s mad but she’s
magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
—  Charles Bukowski, An Almost Made Up Poem