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

Not open for further replies.
frigid, like an icecube in bed

like an icecube in bed

i have seen the bare backsides
of boys whose sex is straight...

bully for you,

fear the faggy kingdom
sleep with the neurosis
on bed.

has a brick
in their mind
building a wall
a great defense
only crushed
by a will

i cannot
bring myself
to bring myself
to bear upon
to stickman straw facts

get up
blood well
Do what needs to be done.

that which is vital.
paper, place, prose.
get out the word
a handsake even
in the darkest
words...even hate...

the monkey holds onto the bar
the scientist wipes his greasy hand
upon his trouser thigh.
the Neighbour
picks his hariy nose
a priest has a small erection.
a woman showers fully clothed.

noone is safe from lechery
or microbes or money or mayhem...

some people dribble in their sleep
but i'm told it's not because their
lacking the intellectual capacity...

When I sleep
the lights are out,
some say
it is a mark
of sadness
to lay in bed too long...

a great waste
a great sin
apathy, will
you make my breakfast

like a match in a box....
I lay stark and thin
like a paper clip -
my duvet - a folder

I am drowning
like an onion
into a boiling pot

i am drawing with a canvas
in a large park

running rings round you....

mr president,
have you ever coughed and farted
as the same time?

someones of time
I salute you
whoever I am...!

birds sit on the tree
arguing with one another
talking bird shit in bird speak
something we can't quite grasp
like someone mouthing
through a window
you can't hear
or make out
the words

it is

you light a
what at the fuss
was about

you shake,
curse the job
the sky sings

the smoke
the curtain in the wind,
bellows perhaps to weep;

there is nothing:
only houses
filled with a
million chests
moving up and
down and up and
down in the breathing
of night time...

o, i don't know....

call time:

the beginning

now the end.

Speaking of Buk inspired poetry ... I've got some as well

Dirty old man
He was a man in his early fiftieth, small and sad looking
With runny eyes and face that seemed to be
Pushed to one side, the skin the color of a peeled potato
Brown hands, pants
Always sliding down his ass and dangling just above
His knees like a soiled diaper.
He lived with his teenage daughter
And a smelly lap dog that reminded me
Of a dirty white towel. They occupied
An old dingy house.
He was an artist.
His wife died
Long time ago: he claimed that she was
A lesbian
One evening we drank at his place
Sitting in the kitchen, talking
About art and the Velvet revolution
Life, bringing up children, politics
Then he said
"I'm so old and ugly. Nobody likes me anymore.'
" You're all right', - I said
"No. I'm not. Look! Look at my hands'
"What's wrong with your hands?'
" Just look at my hands.
All covered with these
Weird brown patches. Look at them. Look at these patches.
" Listen, let's have another drink,' - I said
We drank some more then
He went on whining
About his hands and old age
I continued to sit there, nodding
To his litany
While pushing away his dog
The smelly monster seemed to be determined
To masturbate on my leg the whole evening
"Hey, I wanna show you my drawings. "
" Yeah. Show me your drawings.'
We got up. Suddenly
He tried to grab
My ass but missed and fell
Across the table.
"Aaaaahhh. See? I'm finished, "- He croaked
Then limped to his bedroom and fell asleep.
I listened to his snores reverberating through the house
Shaking window glass and his paintings
Then took my socks and shoes off
And dozed off on his couch in the living room
When I awoke I found that
The damn dog stole one of my socks
I headed to the kitchen
Squatted in front of the dog's basket and cooed
" Hey, you little hairy devil. Gimme it back. Gimme
It back to me!' but the bastard just growled
And snapped his teeth. Finally it bit my finger.
I gave up, shoved the remaining sock in my pocket,
Got out of the house,
Walked over to a tram stop, lit a cigarette
And threw remining sock in a garbage bin
It was the most boring evening
I'd ever remembered.
Last edited by a moderator:
[sorry for posting in this thread - bad night.]

You wouldn't guess,
what this life is all about.
I wouldn't guess.

This is a strange place to be.
Very strange.
And the only way out
is the final way out.

You ask me, what to do -
and I can only look into your eyes
with no answers.

The worst thing is
sharing the same things,
but being unable
to walk through them together.

yes i'm a writer.....never published....never attempted to be
I'm inspired by Bukowski to continue....but I was writing well before I discovered him

as far as suggesting writing as a career...I wouldn't know.....I myself couldn't do it, too much risk for my liking....
Interesting thread. I guess being a Bukowski fan is difficult for a young writer as he makes it all seem so simple.

As a fledgling writer myself I must say that the hardest thing to 'deal' with are the rejection letters. Once you ride the lows then writing genuinely is a pleasure. Its important not to see writing as a career and to try and be as original and unconventionable as possible when you are starting out.
Well if we're posting.
I have to admit I found Buk by being a Mickey Rourke fan. I loved the movie Diner and was hooked. It's unfortunate (or Karma) his career seems to have taken a few odd directions.
The first book I read was the Captain is out to Lunch.
Here is my best example of stealing style (the Hemingway story)

Nothing Like a Dame
There was tension in Heather's voice.
"I'm supposed to leave Winnipeg for Toronto tomorrow morning".
"I know".
"I'm not coming. I want to I just can't".
"I know that too".
I stopped listening to her of explanations and excuses.
I just sat on my bed, a cot made for a ten year old in my basement apartment that smelled of dog piss and mould. I saw it all unraveling before me.

We talked for a few more moments then hung up

For 14 weeks I had hoped that our long distance romance our stroking between legs and Provinces would give me something to hang on to. Something anything to take my mind of my life.

Abby spent 14 years trying to prove to myself that she had made the right decision choosing me. She was wrong. I had wasted her time.
Once she knew, I knew it was only a matter of time.
I left the house in August
Today was Thanksgiving

True emptiness hits you hard, a blind shot to the belly.
You know you have lost it all, everything.
You know you're broken.

I rose from the cot placed the receiver on the phone and thought about my situation.
My relationship with Abby had ended. My relationship with Heather never began. I had lost my job. My TV was at the pawnbrokers so I could pay the rent for a stinking roach infested apartment and to top it off my stolen lap top was stolen from me while I was at work collecting a cheque for one hundred and eighty two dollars after taxes.

It truly was an odd moment.
The ground seemed less stable, my main street Indian knees stumbled forward. I wanted to vomit but I was too weak.
A sewer of gas and bile trapped in my throat

The words didn't come out but I could hear them.
I am a loser.
I have nothing
I sat again on the bed, the cot.
The wallpaper screamed while the clock numbers ticked.
I sat at the edge of the bed afraid to move afraid that I would fall of the earth.
Finally around 3:00 I rose and placed the CD player on the empty TV stand and popped Frank Dean and Sammy into the player, grateful that it was neither broken nor stolen.

The chairman and the boys were in fine form. They were singing about being winners, and why shouldn't they? They were rolling sevens every time. They carried their show from town to town for forty years. For forty years they had their choice of blonds with firm breasts redheads with long and sexy legs or brunettes with pumpkin perfect behinds. They had it all. The whole world wanted to be next on their arm.
In tailored tuxes and starched bow ties they sang to sold out crowds told jokes, banged broads and drank non stop from sunrise to sun down every night. But what gave them their style what made them winners was that they knew, they really knew, that tomorrow would be the same or better.
They had all the cards all the time.

I had a splitting head ache.
I walked to the cupboard and pulled out some peanut butter and crackers.
Then it began.
Frank Dean and Sammy were standing in front of my CD player dressed great in but looking mean, pissed off. Every hair on Franks head was in place. Sammy was pounding a pair of brass knuckles into his palm staring at me with his one good eye (I don't know which was which). Dean had one foot on my cot and seemed indifferent.
Frank moved first he was still the chairman.
He drove a left into my face and knocked me back.
Dean moved forward quickly and kicked me in the groin.
I fell to the floor as electric razors shocked shorted and sliced through my legs.
It was like the hot end of a soldering gun was shoved up my dick.
Next it was Sammy.
One swift kick to my thigh then a savage series of punches. The 40 watt bulb overhead shining on the brass dusters. He was relentless He pummeled my head neck and shoulders.
Dean kicked me in the groin again. I dropped to the floor like a hanged man
my body spasming under the pain.
Frank circled around me looking for the best shot.
Frank was more selective. He waited until my hands moved to comfort my throbbing dick.
Frank connected with a boot heel to my temple. Sledgehammers rocked inside my skull.
I tried to protect my head but was too late.
Frank drove his other wing back into my ribs.
Then they really began to work me over. Sweat fell from their brows as a flurry of kicks, swift and sharp punches attacked every part of me. It was like a mindless merciless spider setting upon a fly.
Everything became clouded I couldn't see a thing.
All I could smell was shoe polish and my own urine.
The pawn broker hands me a $8.00 slip for my TV
Dean steps on my knee.
Heather apologizes again
Sammy pulls me up by the hair his good eye (right I think) going crazy.
Abby says she'll pack me a doggy bag a left over dish.
Dean and Frank take turns ring studded rights driving into my belly.
Mould and stale cigarettes hang on the wallpaper.
Frank drives in a low left hand under my rib cage.
A lap top sells for a $10.00 dollar rock
Dean kicks me in the groin again. What is with his foot and my crotch?
A carving knife stained with cranberries slices through sinew and bone.
Frank connects with a right uppercut to my jaw.
A night watchmen job starts at $6.75 per hour
A tooth becomes loose and the air is like a razor in my mouth.
I'm down again.
Cashew and sausage stuffing tumbled from the bird's ass.
My face pressed against a spot on the carpet that was threadbare and worn.

Franks Elbows Deans knees and Sammy's boot tips crash against my shoulders and back.
.My arms crumbled beneath the assault. Defenseless my head lay exposed. Blow after blow fell upon my head. Again I raised my arms trying to protect my skull. I blocked a few but not all of them. But enough to give me confidence.
The receiver flat lined a monotonous hum.
It stopped.

Fuck em. Losing ain't so bad. I placed my hands under myself trying to rise. My mouth a grill of blood and bone, knees still wobbly I am a confused lamb ripe for picking.
Straighten up and Christ just draw one short breath. If I can get one short breath I'll be OK.
But I'm not OK I'm broken busted.

But then something happened. I began spitting out blood over a lip spit and swollen spilling over my chin looking like a crushed spring rain sidewalk worm. I got that breath. It was weak but it came so did another.

I straightened up sharp shocks of pain racing up my spine. I staggered a bit blinked once or twice and tried to focus through swollen rotten fruit eyes. I take slow breaths so I don't sting the worm with warm air.
This is pain real sorrow and regret. Then I said it.
You are hollow but not dead. You're only broken, not beaten.

But at least it's a place to start-something I can rest you head against. I know really know Tomorrow is going to come and it's going to be the same or better.

I rose to all fours. I looked at Franks smug lip. Dean's foolish smile (cock smoker)and Sammy's one good eye (left I think).
I smiled spit blood and dental work and said
is that all you got?

There ain't nothing Like a Dame
Last edited by a moderator:

Black Swan

Abord the Yorikke!
But, as with any writer, and any clown who finds it impossible to ignore a keyboard and blank computer screen, or pen/pencil and blank piece of paper, a phony style is good for a million plus - plus words. Talent is the key, and she is a mysterious Bitch as elusive as her cousin the Muse.
As you say Talent and the Muse . I believe that Luck is also a factor.


lothario speedwagon
bukowski inspires me not to write. whenever i read bukowski, i fear my own poetry would just sound like an imitation of his- his style gets in my head, and it's not my style. my writing ends up sounding put-on and fake. i love reading bukowski, but if i want to get inspired to write, that usually happens through music, not other writers.

as for being published, i've been rejected from every journal i've ever submitted to, but i have never submitted very aggressively. a long time ago a woman asked me for a few poems for an anthology she was doing about race, and i wrote some really crap poems just because i thought it was a good chance to get published... now the book is on amazon. ironic that maybe my least favorite poems i've ever written are the ones that have been published.

i should edit this and say i'm not looking for sympathy or encouragement (there are other forums for that). if i want to get my work out there badly enough, i'll self-publish a book, the latest of which some of you have read and provided very nice commentary on.
writing as a career?


Writing as a kind of life science/ art thing / observing you and yours / openly masturbating / telling what few will tell in written word / noting down the time, the period / noticing cracks in the wall, spiders webs, men with drink on their breath in black BMW's in the morning...I suggest writing, for that purpose alone.
Mmmm...it's been suggested that I try, but I suffer lack of confidence. At times I feel compelled to jot something in the blog or files. But to say that I was a writer would be a real stretch.

But, I do get a great deal from reading, and being out here keeps the coals stoked.
I think there's a bunch of us here, Ponder and RJWink had chapbooks recently. I got my short stories on blogs on myspace.com/jimvacca There is a guy named Richard Perez who has a book called The Losers Club and he's a big Bukowski fan.

Anybody remember the Bukowski story where he mentions to a Mexican fellow in a bar that he's a writer and the guy replies he's one, also. He says he uses his dick to write inside women. Don't know why I thought of that.

Father Luke

Founding member
I wrote before I ever heard of Bukowski. That Brother Schenker guy who posts here turned me onto Ham on Rye. Then I ate everything else I could find.

I'm still hungry.
Hungry for more Buk.

Funny, huh?

The more I eat
of him the more
I want.

Would I suggest writing as a career?
Not really.

It's like anything else you do that you like.
When it becomes a job, it can become like
a lover who has turned against you.

"I need to pay the rent!"
"But, can't you just write a little something for
me, like you used to?"

Any job, which is also a hobby, requires
the ability to be able to put the joy aside,
and to work.

I may be full of shit, but that is my experience.

If you can look at writing, and understand the difference between writing for fun, and reading for fun, then I say sure. Go for it. You are going into it with both eyes open.

Here is a sample of my work, since everyone else is throwing their two cents worth in.

derelict in his duties

Deserted weekend streets

Sifting through the garbage
for something to eat.


Next can . . .
Thank you all.

Thank you all for the links to your writing. Please keep it coming.
Father Luke I am forever in your debt. Some things are so easy..others so hard. Reading and writing the balm for the wounds inflicted by my painting.
Thank you for momentarily stopping the bleeding with your words.

Father Luke

Founding member
I wish I could say something wise.
I hope that thank you will do the trick.

Thank you.

Thank you because the greatest
gift you can give to any writer is to read
the words they write. You have given us all
an opportunity to receive the greatest gift available
to any author. So, that's why I'm saying thanks to you.

That, and because you mention my name. I thought that was cool.


Founding member
Choice stuff,your chapbook must have been kick ass,i am glad that no one drop the red rubber ball,the nuns had me hiding under my desk back then,lifes little lessons.


It is what it is
Maybe I'm the only one on this forum that is NOT a writer?

No. Not a writer either.

But to paraphrase a wise man 'God saw fit to create a great many poets, but not so much poetry'.

I'm a reader... and sometimes that's hard too.

I also do cd and live reviews for the Noise local music paper at thenoiseboard.com

Though mostly it's my cat and a space alien Zortar using my name.

This is unfortunately, true.
last night (high)

i close my eyes for protection
ugliness filling the outside
open my eyes again
to whitness the beautiful complexity of exhaled smoke
then open again

this time there's a sense of hidden darkness
or pherhaps
an abnormal fullness of thoughts to come
a shred of evil sprouts through the look
a thought sneaks in
by a universe
formed chemicals
on formed planets
chemicals shaped to reach intricacy in compound
manifesting Adam
making it think
making it bewildered
by it's own essence
by it's mere existence
no room for merciful void

oh sweet death.

I've always been at the wrong side of the tracks,
they keep telling me.
But I know,
I never been to the tracks
or even close to them
at all.

Gerard K H Love

Appreciate your friends
There's not a time now
that I mow my lawn
and don't think about getting
all the hairs.

I have a 6 horse power Briggs and Sratten and
I still worry about getting all the hairs.
Or I will get the strop.

I have never been him and I will
never be
But I know what he was saying and
how he felt

this is no passing intrest
Dreams and Nightmares

Wake you up

make you think

about the things that bother us.

Do dreams come true ?
we try and real hard
to be the things we want to be.

Get shot down and kiss the dirt
standing up and walking in reverse.
Dreams and nightmares

cracks in the concreate
words are moving but there's no sound.
Shadows and figures

familair faces and Places

Monsters and Demons.

Paupers and vandals.

Saints and sinners.

You awake in pitch black room
returning to reality
asking yourself

am I okay ?

Dreams and nightmares

Black Swan

Abord the Yorikke!
The sun was going down
at one end of St. Louis Lake
people were sliding down St.Joseph Blvd.
stupefied by this July heat
All was well in old Lachine
too hot for fights and too late for ideas of one

I sat under the tent at the Topaze
Away from the Elvis look alike and their girls,
squeezed in black leather casings

And the Greek waiters were twirling like ballerinas
while the hanging speakers sprayed the half naked crowd
with Gloria Estefan
like rain

Untitled 30.jpg
has Anyone on this thread Ever responded before, that the title is from a story by Buk - and that the only 'correct' answer would be:
"Writing chooses you, you don't choose it." - ??
Not open for further replies.

Users who are viewing this thread