Looks fine. Are we talking about 120-140 pages? Looks pretty thin, but quality.
it smells like marmite...What does it smell like?!
Does that mean people will either love it or hate it?it smells like marmite...
*Died 9 April 1553 (could be: D. April 9, 1553 / He Died April 9, 1553)
*thanks for the luck
*my art form
*rejected (could be: The Hell Of It Is To Throw Away Rejected Poems That Seem To Say Something Anyhow Even If Perhaps Not Too Well?)
full circle
*the continual condition
*let's have some fun
*to kiss her long dark hair
waste
*the recess bells of school
the wasted profession
*the strange morning
*feeling good in the new neighborhood (could be: The New Neighborhood?)
*this kind of fire
*unemployed (could be: Unemployed And Shacking?)
tough cob
*the last race
my soul is gone
*the theory
more than ow
*dog times
I might get traded
*faux pas
*about a worried reader of my works:
*the agnostic (could be: Agnostic?)
*a good place
*the legend
*you've seen it on the barstool next to you-
never
a hot sweaty day in August (could be: A Sweaty Day In August?)
*news item
*comeback
*this flag not fondly waiving
*mannequins
*my answer
under the suckerfish sun
I am chastised
*a fine madness
*A Consistent Sort
the old movie star
*trying to dry out (could be: Drying Out?)
*consummation
*before the 7th race
morning after
*heavy dogs in cement shoes
*down the hatch
tragedy?
listening to the radio at 1:35 a.m.
*perfect silence
mirror mirror on the wall
parts dept. (could be: The Parts Dept.?)
dear editor:
*Lack Of A Common Interest (could be: A Common Interest?)
*I'm upstairs now
*as Buddha smiles
*what have I seen?
*a correspondent wrote bitterly:
*moving toward age 73:
*I Saw A Tramp Last Night (BOSP)
*Mountain Of Horror (could be: A Horror Poem?)
bent
*The Last Winter (could be: My Last Winter?)
bayonets in candlelight
I'm, like, a totally fast reader n' stuff...so, basically, that's why I only finished 1/2 the book...because, after hours at the lash, Heir Roberts gave me a bowl of gruel & a few moments to read.
As for the late-night plays...I admit I was very disappointed to find not Bill's wife but his visiting father-in-law sneaking around in my room at 3am...
Those aren't pillows....
Sex, self-disgust, horse racing, literary fame and obscurity, delight in foul language ("dry and ridiculous bungholes"), and fleeting but genuine pleasures (from voyeurism to eating a spider crab): Bukowski's many, many remaining fans will find familiar themes in this 12th set of previously unpublished poems to appear since the Los Angeles writer died in 1994. "The god-damned editors don't know anything," he tells "the lady on the couch," and indeed he insists on the life, the meat, of the poems. Short lines dominate this particular cull of verse, with plenty of quoted conversation mixed in; as with most of his work, misanthropy rules, making the flashes of mercy--and of sexual acceptance-shine bright indeed: "I was/ sick and I/turned to look out the/window/ white yellow grease of/ morning/ burning my/eyes./ Next to me in bed/ there she was." The poems may repeat themselves, but they stay true to Bukowski. Few people would want to trade places with this poet for whom "pain sits, pain floats, pain/ waits;/ pain is," but plenty will continue to cherish his unpretentious words.
For what it's worth, I tend to think that the cover may change.
[...] I guess we can start calling this the OFFICIAL Charles Bukowski site. [...]
Well, I think we know that Martin, and not the secretary added the line, "and blink," to the second stanza of Died 9 April 1553, because it has the same stink as his amateurish changes to Women.
Note to all you "editors" out there: adding your own lines in not editing.
Sometimes I want to kiss John Martin full on the lips, and sometimes I want to kick him in the nuts. Is that Wrong? Ha ha.