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

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I hate to hog this thread, but I think I just heard Black Swan and Purple Stickpin do a request for a Calhounian poem ... here's a recent one.

Bukowski grooves
by Harry Calhoun


Reading on the couch
Bukowski grooves
slip into the upholstery

you know, the groove
how he's got the nuance down pat
like the cockroach

sliding into gaps
between paper plates between
the blanket and sheet

and nothing and the night
itself slips in
to a Bukowski poem

and there is nothing
a certain nothing in the air
the French would call it

je ne sais quoi
with their damned faggot language
I call it a ghost

and my man you haunt me
elusive, unattainable perfect and


hurting like the best bluesman
 
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Bravo Harry,
je dirais que ce poéme a en effet un petit 'je ne sais quoi'
de trés savoureux.
Very nice! Thank you
 
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Rules is rules is made to be broken. Or maybe not. As long as the thread holds my garment together, I am happy.
 
I started writing before I started reading good literature. When I started reading good stuff, I started writing better. I once handed one of my manuscripts to an old English teacher of mine, Jason DeFrias out of EG, NY (Columbia HS), and he said to me,

"I can definitely see where you're influenced by Bukowski!"

I hadn't started reading Bukowski until after I had wrote the manuscript.

I never thought the world was mine, I just think maybe there's a possibility it could be. Probably not, though. And I actually prefer my old stuff to my new stuff. My new stuff is shit, I think. I haven't been able to write in a way that I admired since I've been sober.

Who wants to hear an off the, somewhat fantastical story about 2 drunks and some literature?
 
hey, you know what. i have a long history of drug and alcohol abuse, not to mention a long history with prescription drugs for depression and anxiety.

i still smoke some pot although nothing like i used to, i rarely drink and i have learned how to write again. and it's better, akshully.

it will come lolita. give it time.

and i'm always up for a good story.
 
had to add this fucker to the mix...
an important thing
i think each writer should do
is tell their idle
to fuck off a little
so...

GRIMKOWSKI
written by Grimbol

"what matters most
is how you walk through the fire"
---bukowski said

no
bukowski

the only thing that matters
is
the fire itself

whether
its pussy-fire
or a dad
kicking your ass
or
a one dollar scratch off
lying on the car floor
or fire
or death

it is
the sun
bukowski,
it is
exploding
and
eating
nothing

yes, the fire is there
whether you walk through it or not
and it will burn the fuck out of you

i love you bukowski
i wish you had written more books
but sometimes i read WOMEN
to hear about the women
and not
about how you fucked them
 
Small triumph

The place got crowded.

There was a group
of bikers.

And I was feeling
strangely elated,
negotiating my way
to the bar.

Suddenly I was barred
by one large
bearded fellow.

I stepped to the side
and he followed.
I stepped the other way
and so did he.
He then stood
to his full height.

I held out my arms.
"Care to?" I asked.

He shrank
as his
contemporaries laughed.

I carried on to the bar.
I hadn't lifted a finger.
 
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roni said:
the girl whose mother just left me
is sitting on my lap
innocently smiling at me.

girl - if you knew, about life
you'd cry.
Click to expand...

I'm not one to talk about beauty much anymore, but if I did this would be it. Is there some truth to this?
 
That's all folks...

The news makes me cry
With laughter.

There's a scream
Through the dark, nightly
From the screen.

The coyote got it FINALLY
The roadrunner got bored
In exhaustion
Of the never-ending
Strait road,
And went the only way.
 
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thanks, hooch. that was part of a spontaneous endeavor(sp?) from over a decade ago, pre-bukowski. i don't write anymore.
 
My take on writing as a career is one of an individualistic perspective. If you feel that you'll be happy writing, then do it. If you feel your better of doing something else, then do that something else. None the less, don't let a money driven society drive you from your dreams... Too often I hear ploys to keep people from their true destiny by suggesting that "you need" in order to survive; all one needs are the bare essentials and nothing more. Screw working for the man, and making them money, while they don't pay you your true worth, go after that dream.
 
APRM said:
Screw working for the man, and making them money, while they don't pay you your true worth, go after that dream.
Click to expand...
I thought you worked in a retail store? What about "screw the man"? Ah, I get it, you're working to smash the state from the inside! Very clever!
 
How is me working at a retail store going to smash the state? Ad absurdum argument there? If my dream was to write, I'd not be working there. But that's not my dream, my dream requires me to work at such a pathetic job "for now".
 
Would you suggest writing as a career?

Well, I write for a living. I'm a freelance hack. I read articles on the internet. I talk to people on the phone. Then I digest it all and crap out an neat little package for whoever commissioned the piece.

It's not a career or a vocation. It sure as fuck isn't glamourous. It's a trade like any other and it pays the bills, and it only does that because I work in a boring and technical niche.

Pumping out words for money is something I do because I'm unsuited to anything else, and I'd only recommend it to someone equally fucked up -- someone who can't stomach commuting, office politics, small talk, grey cubicles and all the rest of it.

But I have a feeling you're talking about a different kind of writing, the kind that isn't half-true, perverse, forced, and vacillating.
 
I think it falls right between ad hominem and ad nauseam in the ad pecking orderum.

Or not.
 
After reading the endless thread called "The Next Bukowski", I had to write something about it.
All fictional, so, unfortunately, it's about no one in particular.
Just mainly about the 'tough guy poetry' along with the 'tough guy image' that seems to be out there.

---The Next Bukowski--

He wrote about
His father waking up
In the backseat
Of his sister's
Car
Still drunk
And even more naked
Than before

He wrote about
His mother
Skipping bail
And trying
To pick up
His daughter at school
While he worked
Five jobs
And five
Women
At the same time

He would always
Naturally
Write about
Getting drunk
And getting into
Fights
More with his ex girlfriend
Than the law
Or the people that
He drank with

He wrote about
Snapping the tails off
Cats when younger
And kicking women
Out of his bed
When older

He wrote
About starting fires
In trashcans
Tossing bricks
Through the
Windows of banks
And crashing
Into the sides
Of other cars
While trying to drive
Home

People have called him
The next Bukowski
People have also
Said cheaper
Things than that
While the soft walls
Close in on them
And the noose tightens

Everyone is fighting
For a place at
The dinner table

What these people need
To know is that
The only thing this
Poet is
Is an ordinary weed
Trying to grow
As tall as the Redwoods
But will never admit
That he is
Simply a weed
And a weed
That there's plenty of
 
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Random winter poem follows now.

A Sunday In Winter
Lolita Ginsoski



The skies kiss without haste,
but with the abandon
of the Most Beautiful Woman in Town.
Street lights fall upon the flurry,
with the diction
of a Dylanesque degenerate.
Radicals fall from inside the sky
with a stamp that says they'd came from Eden.

Kids walk up and down in the black
that they've worn since their renaissance.
Their faces are red with the blood
from their bodies.
Their cigarette's smoke is contrasted nicely
with the nightcave streets, where you can hide
more easily, in the dark.
The red is contrasted nicely
with the cream on ice
from the sky.

Down the street there is a wedding
canopy that is being weighed on
with virgin snow. It will brake
before morning,
and not look so pure anymore.

Houses are cold
and the home on the hill
is warm hearted.
Feet are turned blue and lips are shrunk, chapped.
Women's legs turn dry and without purpose.
Noses are red and they are blew.
Vaseline sells and so does penicillin
and lube.
People make love to stay warm near the fire.
They've walked through badly,
while others are dying outside with warmer feet than they without a swagger,
but of lovelessness and cynicism that meant more than a life.
 
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A beautiful piece. Raw, descriptive and weird. My kinda shit.


I: The Fantasy Of Leftovers

I turned the key in the lock
To let myself in to
Our apartment.
My feet stepped
Lightly
On the wooden floor.

The kitchen was devoid of dishes
But still speckled with dirt.
And cleaner than I ever kept it.
The bed sheets were a mess
But the floor
Was clean.
Except for a
Sock that wasn't yours
And damn sure wasn't mine.
It's probably from another one-night-stand
Like the ones you had when we
Were just friends and you were a
Horny barfly.

I heard the shower on
And peeked in the bathroom.
There you were, sitting.
On the floor of the shower
Reveling under the hot water
The room was steamed up.

Your long brown hair was awash
And your creamy skin was drenched.
Your heavy breathing fogged up the shower door.
Your fingers crept inside of you, and your moans
Came out so softly.

My head just rested longingly
On the door frame, hoping
I was the one on your mind.
That's when I noticed all my
Clothes were on the floor
I was stark naked and my
Erection pointed straight at you.



II: The Hot Water Music

My skin has too much hair attached to it
I know that, and I know my body
Has too much fat on it. But most of all
My heart has too many strings caught on it.
The rubber band is ripping from
My beating heart, as it beats
Harder and faster.

I filled the sink with hot water,
While your moans and the
Splashing shower water filled my ears.
And shoved my head in the sink.

You turned and saw me while you
Leaned back in ecstasy.
Stopped dead in your tracks,
Your eyes wide open.
I unwittingly moved closer.
And opened the shower door.
I sat next to you, and put my head in your lap.
I faced up, and your breasts protected me from
The hot water.

I kissed your tummy and
Your belly button.
I slid my tongue up
Your soaking, hot body
Sucking on your neck up to your lips
Looking you right in the eye
Like I'm asking for permission
With tears in my eyes
Or water...I can't tell anymore.

You looked at me with sympathy
And bit my nose.









III: The Shower Was A Scene

My nose started to bleed,
And you bit into the meat covering
My shoulder blade.
I rubbed my teeth on your neck
As you let go and started to kiss me.
Our tongues fought each other for a while
Before I moved my head down, down.
I kissed your lower lips and stuck my
Tongue inside your soaked vagina.

I realized I still wanted to please you
Even though you had destroyed me.
I just licked and licked, and found
Your clitoris. I just want you to feel
Good. As you moan, and moan and
Scream. And I kiss up your body
You get on top of me and go down.
Your tongue encircles the head of
My penis. You start to suck gently
And take in the shaft. I just lie
There moaning, confused at your
Actions. But too fucking horny
To care. You moved up, and
Straddled me. You leaned down and
Bit my lip as you bounced on top of me.
I roll over, and get up, push you against the
Wall and slam bang. You're moaning as I
Move my hips.
You push forward, and I slip backwards
And hit the door and we fall out and hit the ground.
The chaos is such an aphrodisiac
And I move on top of you. Slam bang.
Your ecstatic screams echo in the small room.
Your body writhed and your
Vaginal muscles contracted bringing me to orgasm,
And I let out a loud continuous groan, and you screamed.
We slowed, and stopped. And I stroked your hair, and kissed your lips.
Then you told me to get the fuck out.
 
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Hi Mr & Mrs Ginsoski;

No worries, WEgnatius is a troll and is only trying to get a rise out of you by insulting you.

Next he will say that Bukowski would hate every one of us on this forum and would hate the very idea that this forum exists.

It all happens in order and is all very predictable.

Still, it is a lot of fun to watch unfold.

Bill
 
It is only fun to watch everyone, including themselves, make them look like idiots.

Like someone wrote a while back, "Your father didn't hug you enough."
 
At the end of the day IT'S STILL SMALL...it's always gonna be small, & no pills or pumps will ever help...
 
poets

okay so the people on this forum are obviously interested in poetry for some reason or another.
and i may be wrong but would assume that people that like to read poetry like writing it too.
so if your not too shy, or paranoid about people stealing your stuff. then post some poems in the reply area thing.
and here is a poem that you may or may not enjoy, inspired by charles bukowski and written by yours truly.

the good ones
start out
witty and
clever
but by the
3rd stanza
you can
already
start
to tell
that i
am a little
crazy

so i chop
them bitches
up and
put them
in the
freezer
 
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