Would You Suggest Writing as a Career? (1 Viewer)

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Dull - Your poem is a compact nugget of wisdom, just like Buk's often were.

Olaf - I freaked out the first time I read yours. I interpreted the line "Cheese pops under the grill" as referring to the front grille of an automobile !

ESMoist - That closing line is a classic Buk-style kiss-off.

Anybody else ?

I can see why you might have interpreted the cheese melting on a car grille...i.e. 'juggerants polished' but it was not so....what did you think of the piece...it flows pretty well and the ideas hold a strong muse i think. let me know.

i'm not shakespeare but sometimes simply
there won't be anymore
abstract or other wise
I was really drunk when I wrote that thing. I don't usually drink when I'm writing.
Yeah, the last line is a total buk rip off.


I can see why you might have interpreted the cheese melting on a car grille...i.e. 'juggerants polished' but it was not so....what did you think of the piece...it flows pretty well and the ideas hold a strong muse i think. let me know.

i'm not shakespeare but sometimes simply
there won't be anymore
abstract or other wise

Hell yes I like the poem. Good imagery and strong flow.

i'm not shakespeare but sometimes simply
there won't be anymore
abstract or other wise

as God said
crossing his legs

i see where
i have made
quite a lot of poets

but not
much poetry

So What?

And the angel of death came
To take the head
Of the butcher
Who had slain the ox
Who drank the water-
I stole that from the titles of a series of abstract
Hebrew paintings.
There are places where prostitutes
Have steady boyfriends who get to fuck for
No price at all- but how good can that sex really
Also, there are
Million dollar homes on the stinky river where
Drug related
Are committed.
The day they find out that I am not much outside of a liar
Nothing will happen in the middle east
Or China. Just as
If you run out of gas in a rural area, people will still be eating dinner
There?s a pubic hair stuck in my throat like a grape stem
From the wrong woman-
I partially stole that too, From a sitcom this time.
If you drive home plastered and
Make it to your house and into your room and curl up under the covers
You may as well have driven home sober,
Ignoring the phone calls of friends and loved ones is a necessary
And liberating?.Religious experience.
And I?m only saying any of this so I can fall asleep peacefully.
The ox should have never
Have drank the water in the first place
but when it comes down to it, the holy one,
blessed be his name,
the angel
of death,
big time.


Founding member
The Poetry Of Soul

THE dance makes my
feet bleed
so I use my toes to paint
epics of scarlet on the floor

then I leave
the dancehall to go get drunker
and now all's left is my
bloodprint-covered, burgundy-kissed,
sagging, empty dance floor.

outside there's a rocking and thumping carnival,
but I linger in the doorway,
my hand on the knob,
listening to the music and shouts,
savoring the best part of it all--

the warmth of the inside,
the comfort of familiarity
the rush of seeing the new
and the feeling of the night
and the knowledge that
I CAN step forward and
finally know--

you can drink whisky
and you can drink beer
or you can just take a glass
and pour 'em both in
and sip it through a straw.

you can let some girl
steal a kiss
or you can take what's yours
with a dash of class.

you can go down to this
ghost town in texas
where it's never dark
and sit there
swearing hell is where you are
or you can just say,
"the night is MINE"
and hop back in the truck
and drive till it's finally dusk.

you can spill your soul
on your t-shirt
and spend the rest of the night
chewing on your sleeves
or you could let some pretty blonde
do it for you.

you can wear cold-as-ice shades
to hide your eyes
and when the night
comes you can take 'em off
and show everyone how they've been
blind about you,

you can talk about love
or you can make it,
take it,
fake it,
hide it,
or hold it.

you can let it all be,
you can let it all hang,
you can soak in it--
like an everclear watermelon--
you can kiss and pull at her hair
and taste her flesh
and feel her toes between yours...

you can leap from the bridge
or get pushed.

you can fuck,
you can die or
you can go out teeth gnashing,
toes scratching, voice screaming "fuck Death!"
as he takes you in silence.

in the end it's all up to you.


Founding member
Okay, you asked for it; don't say I didn't warn you.


companions in madness

over the crest of
a mountain
I see
three travelers:
Buk, Li Po and me;​

and we walk along, not
speaking much, for,
what is there to

we've all three
traveled the
madman's highway and
lived to
tell our tale;
came over and
thru many
a mountain pass,
leaving behind
quiet, crazy and loud footsteps along
the way;

say we were
fools to
listen to the moon
as he sang our

or drink the wine
in night's black wind and
fight shadows
only three could see;

but others will
take a different tack and
offer that
time would hold
we were but
the roadside
and pathway
of the
saints and fools
who had gone

and there,

before night falls
forever on this
where we've
spent our
time; it
might not be
to be
so bad;

at least, not as
bad as they
say we were; that

these three idiots,
drunk on
life and the word,
while roaring it out,
once raised their cups
by the sea;

Buk, Li Po and me.​
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It's not...

It's Not About The Money

It's about getting down the words
for yourself

as something you take with you
when all of life forsakes you for
the moment

or time runs out
like you will run out

having spent your days here
as a prisoner or hero

lover or fighter

moron or maverick

getting it down whether you
get paid or not

because the payment comes
as you get it down
and carry it with you
distant and away
on feathers of finality

the doing and the done

like a final statement
of yourself

having no price

like you have no price

nor the price of
this sweet earth

the sweetness of life
you grasp between
your hands

to bring it on home
just one more time

what money could never

a song singing unto itself
from out of nowhere

for yourself
and the world

to leave as your mark

when it's over

and you are?



hi everyone

i know this is probably a stale topic but i decided to write something in honor of buk lemme know if you like it

have you ever woken drunk and thought you were bukowski?
i haven't
it's hard to live a a life where nothing matters
but alcohol
regrets plague
and ambitions wonder
can anything be the same?
hmmmmm. All right, I'll bite. I've never ever ever shared a writing anywhere or with anyone (I mean, who wants to read this shit?). Here goes a couple, and here I sit with a very red face:

A man throws his arms into the air
Little does he know
I have seen many men
Throw their arms into the air
Or perhaps he does know
And simply feels the need
To throw his arms into the air


Man does not need
The understanding of others
This need is a flame
Which flickers in all directions
This want is a ravine which is already dry
Already glass-laden
Allow your heart to be bubbles in the glass
Only then will the inside
Become exposed to the outside
It will not be requested
This shattering of form
Yet a greater relief shall never be felt


Anyway, I'm done embarassing myself. Tally ho, chaps!


It is what it is
Hey Bongbill - it's a good thing you don't do poetry coz you did that and that's really good and if you did do poetry you wouldn't have done that and that would be a shame coz it's really good!

Eloquent... ain't I?

Hit those brushes Bongo!
Very, very nice Bill...I can't be as glib as Buk on a Bike, but here's my bad Buk imitation crabmeat poem :)

I've walked through fire
And come out the other end,
Feet black but not burnt,
I've swallowed moths and
Eaten glass in dark pubs,
Where cigarette butts fill
Drain holes
Like a thousand fingers,
A thousand paper eels,
Waving, waving
Preventing the dam
From breaking
But now
It runs over with
Beer piss and tobacco,
Runs over with
Cellophane and vomit,
Runs over with
Broken love and
Broken hearts and
Broken everything,
Spilling down,
Like honey,
Running down
Like honey,
Over white porcelain
Like a river,
Like loathing,
Like a snake from hell,
And I don't give a shit
About the flood,
Or switchblade stilettos,
Or burgundy blood stains,
Or the stinking swill,
Between my feet,
Because I've walked through the fire,
And come out the other end,
Feet black but not burnt...

And I can do it again.
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"The law is wrong; I am right"
Wow! - what a beautiful painting. I would'nt mind one bit to have it hanging on my wall. Well done bongobill. You obviously have talent...
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There use to be Morrison, Elvis, and Fonzy,
and they were cool
Those guys started something,
They filled a void

Now everyone's cool
well,i cant help it, when i feel blue, i write...dunno if its even buk inspired,well,the form resembles:

The Basics

If you are treating people differently,

than you want them
to treat you,

you are asking for something

Its only when you treat them
according to your wishes,
that your dream becomes,

at least,

*cough* *cough*

Worker in the paper

So many corporate dens
are looking for an 'ideas man'

I know one

I've seen him
getting dinner from a bin

running for two quids worth of Big Issue

drinking Tennants
while sitting in the sun

this forgotten dreamer
is a born entrepeneur

picking apple for pie scams

ghost tours
for ghastly tourists

tin can orchestra's
£10 production

Yes my wielders of power
here he is

Your 'Idea's Man'

maybe by your feet

under that newspaper


sometimes there's something real and true
in those

you know
ta very much. Its inspired by a guy I know who roams the streets of Brighton. Everytime I speak to him he's got some crazy new scheme to get him off the streets.

the only good poet

One retreat after another without peace.
head like a dead fish to the sunken wreck

old university profs
writing their stiff shit
to be swallowed by
jack shit

grey men in grey suits
nibbling at the root
of all mankind

there is more between us
than space and time​
feeling like putting some words down today, so I thought I'd share on this filed away thread. I've blown the cyber-cobwebs off so here goes :rolleyes:

In a station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough

-Ezra Pound

*well there you go that's how good poetry goes, now for mine :eek: *

The Printed Line

staring at lines
I am sure has sent many men away
for those of us who can find a home
a home amongst these printed spaces
we find a quiet place

do not fear the solace
for with time
we shall be joined by the ink
& she shall comfort our souls
then bring forth the words

for then we shall no longer be alone
just amongst friends

The shelf

old dusty boots
never to be worn again
between trophies
& sun bleached photographs
how melancholic
that you shall no longer be amongst the scrum
just displayed
like a memorial

a reminder

of what all our successes
shall become

*thankyou for listening*:)
Doorsteps Are Nothing

Passion so deep
Comes out as something else.
I try to weep I do
But all I do is laugh.
Ah well, there are doorsteps to sit upon
a bony ass to contemplate,
I smother the chance at smiling
And watch the others pass by
and go home;
Sunset coming in like jets
reddening the sky.
I forget she made me return the housekey.

I pass a store and buy some booze
my flat is musty and vacant
even more so now that I'm here;
the furniture anticipates,
the shelves just groan. All of this, life, love, the rest,
all of it just shiver and ambush.

The first night in three years alone.
I finish the last beer.

And wank to claim title to loneliness.
The Last Bar on Earth

After the last arguement ever,
The divorce final,
fines paid,
dues done,
in complete surrender,
I find the last bar on earth.

memories lose intensity
people begin to smile again
my teeth are finally fixed,
sleep returns,
We're in... the last bar on earth.

Over on that stool that girl from high school is sitting,
still pretty, now smiling
good friends are calling me over with pitchers and joints,
the bouncer is joining and calling me by my first name,
he's got my back,
at the last bar on earth.

The Juke box has them all, Al Green, James Brown, Allman Brothers, Flaming Groovies,
and that girl from high school is dancing by herself in the corner, while we sing along,
in the last bar on earth.

Tommorrow we work, tonight we play,
hoping the biker takes the pool table defeat easily
doesn't return for blood,
at the last bar on earth.

but hey, the bouncers got my back
and my friends are getting me drunk and stoned
in the last bar on earth.
a cup of coffee

he asked me a question,
but i wasn't paying attention,
or didn't care.

either way,
he rattled on about his life.

how everything had gone to

how his wife had been fucking
another man.

and made him sign divorce papers,
giving her half of everything
he had.

"tough luck." i said.

"no luck." he responded.

"hey, lets go get a cup coffee at
that café."

"all right."

we walked inside,
took a booth and waited for the waitress
to come to our table.

she was a plump lady with a big round ass
and moved like an earthquake erupting.

i watched her wipe her fat fingers
on the towel sticking out from the
front of her uniform.

"can i take your orders gentlemen?"
she asked kindly.

"i'll have a coffee, black" I told her.

"fuck you whore," my friend shouted,
"you're one of them."
"you no good for nothing cunt."

i looked at the now distressed waitress,
prepared to hide in the back kitchen,
or get the also plump cook to toss this
vulgar patron out on his
misogynist ass.

i interrupted,
"we'll have two black coffees to go, please."

as I stepped outside, i asked him,
"what was that all about?"

"what?!" he responded frantically.

he then sipped his coffee,
"this coffee taste like diarrhea."

how he knew what diarrhea tasted like,
i didn't bother to ask.

he then poured it out on the sidewalk
and dropped the paper cup in the

i tasted my coffee,
it was fine - fresh and hot.

some people just never seem to get rid
of that bitter taste.
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drinking dos equis lager
from a green

or reading dostoevsky
from a paperback

is just a dark
corner in my

where i hide out
from humanity
as if my life were half

strumming a
black guitar
until the strings

trying to speak
without the

as poverty
becomes a
world wide

amongst those
who believe
that only money
can set them

but i've checked
the cost and i've
counted the

just to ensure
that i still had
a dollar to my

but does it pay
to notice
that the world is

like rebuilding
a nation
with tanks
instead of

where terrorism's
a factor
to those who
defecate it.

so i turn on my radio:
i want to be sedated.
thanks bright, i dunno.


only the ending sounds honest.
no one ever notices a man dying inside.
even GOD dreams of better days.
as our hearts fill like glasses of wine.
Laugh Out Loud

laughs like a broken record,
as he shouts,
"don't you get it?
"don't you get it?"

and the louder he laughs,
the funnier he thinks he is.
"don't you get it?"

"you have no sense of humor,"
he says to me.

and him telling me that
was the only time i've ever seen him
look serious.

no, no,
i did not get it.

i don't believe anyone there really
got it, but they were good at acting
the role.

then i stood up to leave the bar,
all i could hear was his laughter,
growing louder and louder and louder,
then softer and softer then nothing.

as the door closed behind me,
i walked aimlessly outside,
feeling glad that i didn't get it,
and pray that i never do.
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You guys aren't trying hard enough. This is truly bad...

Dogs Are So Cliche

flea bitten
mange ridden

no more fight
in that dog.

he don't hunt.

that dog
is too far
along in years
to learn new tricks.

let him sleep,
let him lie,
let him dream
of chasing
I did my best, this one totally sucks:


Decided a few weeks ago,
and got aware of
to get a haircut
more often so
people would,
talk to me and,
only afterwards,
notice im different.

..no, wait, even bader, NewSpeakVersion:

Troubled Hair

Decided to
get a haircut so
people would
talk me and
notice im different.



Founding member
Random thoughts shook in a box of bones

Another swig of beer
Another swallow of whiskey
Another piss
And the fishbowl clouds

Waiting for something
Like cat eyes in the dark

As I surround myself
With things just broken
Enough to be alive

As I attempt to suck
Electricity from the air
And the words swim
In bowels of confusion

The shock of static
Bare-feet shuffled on
Long hair carpet

As the assembly lines jam
And the conveyor belts snap

As the workers run for the doors
They left unlocked on their way in

There's something about that splinter
Of light from a crack in the doorway

A death train emerging from tunnel
Into heaven morning

And everything is pregnant

The pour is slow
As I watch her unhook the hinges
The bindings of her bra

Breastbone cradle
Nipple connected to areola
Where the milk of a woman grows

My hand opens like a newborn

Reaches for the brightest invention
And a thousand tongues weep for
A tingle of the taste

As I lick the crease
Of a rejected letter

The ink of the envelope
A nose bleed upon virgin snow

A wooden head full of matches
A scalp full of fuses
Ribcage rattles with a steel drum
Planted in the bomb

And there it walks
Along the crazy-8
Hitchhiker highway

With a thumb in a pocket
Stashed with tickets to anywhere

To here
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