Yes, but you have to admit, The Tasty Bukowskis would be a hell of a name for a rock band ...
I would be interested to hear what people here at bukowski.net have to say about this:
http://www.outsiderwriters.org/content/view/690/1/
Especially those who have read his work.
I knew a lady who once lived with Hemingway.
I knew a lady who claimed to have screwed Ezra Pound.
Sartre invited me to visit him in Paris but I was too stupid to
accept.
Caresse Crosby of Black Sun Press wrote me from Italy.
Henry Miller's son wrote that I was a better writer than his
father.
I drank wine with John Fante.
but none of this matters at all except in a romantic sort of
way.
some day they'll be talking about me:
"Chinaski wrote me a letter."
"I saw Chinaski at the racetrack."
"I watched Chinaski wash his car."
all absolute nonsense.
meanwhile, some wild-eyed young man
alone and unknown in a room
will be writing things that will make you forget
everybody else
except maybe the young man to
follow after
him.
Not The next Buk..... 'Cos its a lady and she's English.....
But she's good its by Catherine Smith:
REQUEST
( . . . )
I haven't slept for weeks. Send me your bed.
BY CATHERINE SMITH
Nice, nice piece by Ms. Smith. Thanks for posting, Corndog, I enjoyed it tremendously. Is she well-known in the U.K.?
Shadow photographs
On the run from our own faces,
but wanting to capture
the oddness of our conjunction,
we photographed our shadow:
a dark double figure on sand
the negative we were together.
Earlier that day
he parked on the beach and parted my thighs,
the first to try and define me with his tongue.
He was not the one, it was all wrong.
I struggled against the seatbelt
and my damp, bunched skirt,
making to pull away, kick the door open,
scramble out into the sunlight
but suddenly loosened into stillness
by that silvery flickering,
the new low sound of my voice,
the sweetness leaking from me where he drank.
We intercepted light, we were
a region unreached by it.
This is the ghost of us,
a counterfeit holiday snap:
my head on his shoulder, some blown hair
like a dark flame.
By Jean Sprackland
:):):)
-I think they are Quality poems.Built in
I am still in here, despite the siege. Still here,
behind the maze of scaffolding and duckboards -
business almost as usual, though I daren't leave.
I watch the men through the drawn blind like TV,
as they paint over the rotting window frames,
drink tea from flasks, sandblast, dig up pipes outside.
I keep the windows locked, just in case - paranoid,
I hide the jewellery box. On cold days, they slither
about on the slats, four floors up - a precarious ballet.
Some nights, I like to haul myself through
the wet window with a steaming cup, and sway
on the scaffold, scaring myself. I can choose -
to look out over the rainy slates, streetlights, the stretch
of council yards, or plunge. (Cobbles wink in the alley
below, its discarded mattress a festering fall-breaker.)
But it will be gone soon, this crows' nest, climbing-frame
for drunks, this cage. They will come in the morning,
wake me early, and pack it away, whistling.
Under South Bridge
This is just one arch in an army
of many. Arthritic old lady of Edinburgh -
hunched over Cowgate, back bent
like a book-spine, like a toughened bow;
a sudden gap in the city's slack smile.
A bus swings through her like the tongue
of a bell, flinging peals of pigeons
into the cool air. A busker harvests her echo,
this bridge of sighs - slouching at the edge
of her boat-hull-black roar.
Stand in her rushing yawn yourself, or slide
between her jawbones in the tarmac's tread.
Graffiti - like a sandstone tattoo - taints
the upturned dish of dark: Fuck Westminster.
Jambos forever! SCOTIA! Poles Go Home.
Wow! Finally, someone mentions a poet who is not American, at the risk of sounding xenophobic in the Hilterite extreme, and alienating myself even moree on this site, THANK FUCK FOR THAT!
Wow! Finally, someone mentions a poet who is not American, at the risk of sounding xenophobic in the Hilterite extreme, and alienating myself even moree on this site, THANK FUCK FOR THAT!
Did you mean: Hitlerite ?
Hit·ler·ism (htl-rzm)
n.
The fascistic and nationalistic theories and practices of Adolf Hitler and the Nazis.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hitler·ite (-l-rt) adj. & n.
Comparing me to Hitler, not charming.
Wow! Finally, someone mentions a poet who is not American, at the risk of sounding xenophobic in the Hilterite extreme, and alienating myself even moree on this site, THANK FUCK FOR THAT!
anyway, enough of me!
vodka said:there isn't a next bukowski. there is bukowski, and there are other excellent poets, but there is not a next bukowski.
:eek:Here's one of my faves, I call it Pi
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He said that "Alan Ginsberg" told him that once. Alan Ginsberg might be a "Real Estate" salesman from Yonkers, NY, or a janitor from Dubuque, IA (not that there's anything wrong with that). Allen Ginsberg was a poet (like him or not).
Who knows if it's a simple matter of a mis-spelling (sic) or perhaps the unread fine print.
Maybe it was Allyn Ginzburgh?
"
then he'd disappear
quietly into the woods
and send sparrows skyward
unzipping his soul
with a .357"
Excerpt from Justin Hyde's 'right before the ass-crack of 2am'
I looked up Alan Ginsberg in the PA white pages and got 6 hits to exact spelling. Many more with off spellings or initials. I guess I'll be on the phone for a while longer, mjp(;)) Thanks PS.