Bukowski me to death.

To be able to provide an origin of hope among lines of disparity . Hold your breath and let the words sink into you. I am solely writing this just to remind myself : past the self loathing , past the bitterness , there’s light amidst the darkest souls.  After all what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.

Maybe someday, I might be competent enough to speak to my heart out , till then I will crawl among booze soaked Chinaski’s stories  and find a warm place to rest my heart among these poems.

I guess , great literature never came out of happiness.

“Lighting new cigarettes,
pouring more

It has been a beautiful

is.” .

“there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.

people so tired
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.

it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place

unspoken to

watering a plant.”

“There is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the
best moments
the greatest times

we will know it

we will know it
more than

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

we will wait

in that space.”

“Down through the last door,

Past the music,

Past the dancing girls,

Down through the last hall ,

Past the last new year

And the last hurrah !

Past the flight of the hummingbird

Past the kiss

The last flux and flow

The last new day,

The last night’s sleep,

The last sweet orange,

The last war,

Past the last word.”

“The nights you fight best are
when all the weapons are pointed at you,
when all the voices hurl their insults
while the dream is being strangled.

The nights you fight best are
when reason gets kicked in the gut,
when the chariots of gloom encircle you.

The nights you fight best are
when the laughter of fools fills the air,
when the kiss of death is mistaken for love.

The nights you fight best are
when the game is fixed,
when the crowd screams for your blood.

The nights you fight best are
on a night like this
as you chase a thousand dark rats from your brain,
as you rise up against the impossible,
as you become a brother to the tender sister of joy

and move on regardless.”

“to fight for each minute is to
fight for what is possible within
so that your life and your death
will not be like”

“I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love,
and how you gave me everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me.”

“If I never see you again I will always carry you

on my fingertips

and at brain edges

and in centers
of what I am of
what remains.”

“your poems about the girls will still be around
50 years from now when the girls are gone,”
my editor phones me.

dear editor :
the girls appear to be gone

I know what you mean

but give me one truly alive woman
walking across the floor toward me

and you can have all the poems

the good ones
the bad ones
or any that I might write
after this one.

I know what you mean.

do you know what I mean?”

“the courage it took to get out of bed each
to face the same things
over and over was enormous.”

Bukowski me to death.

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