The last straw...

No. It is not his birthday, or the anniversary of his death.
In fact there is no reason for this post apart from the obvious one (known by many by now): Bukowski is a poet. And this is a good reason to commemorate him and his work as often as time allows it. (He would so laugh at these words if he was still alive)

I asked myself many times why love his work? Why obsess with a guy that drunk, cursed and used women instead of tissues.Why bother buying another poetry book signed by him? Why even planning to go visit his grave some time in the future?

And I bet there are a few more other questions out there my subconscious has not as yet processed.

Hank was a hater of people, a hater of poetry readings, a hater of conventionality. Yes, he loved his alcohol, his classical music, his gambling on horses and I believe he loved the idea of love - which may or may not be anything to do with the women he encountered.

Who cares?

 The thing that keeps me hooked is his cunning ability to be honest, brutally open about taboo and totally exposed to the waves of pain and deception life throws at any given time.

The link will take you to the last public reading he ever made, the last straw...

Millionaire

Millionaire ..This has happened a while ago, however, it is an ageless moment and I want to share it with you.

 Location: Gunsel's place
 Poem: Millionaire by Charles Bukowski
 Music: Goldberg Variations by Bach
 Mood: very very poetic..:p

 Enjoy!

from one to another...(to my good friend and rival Gunsel Djemal)

she was in love with bukowski
so she wrote him a poem
and poured another glass
while rain was flooding her thoughts
and nobody really cared
not even bukowski
who did not even stir
down in his grave
people are boring
he would have told her
women are predictable
same hair dos and make up and shoes
wherever you turn
same nagging and flip flops and scarfs everywhere
but she wouldn’t listen
she went to the off license
poured another glass
and wrote another poem
to bukowski
who she was in love with
just like I was..

confessions...

I must confess, I am I guess addicted to Bukowski and for the last few days and nights I've been digging out his books, shredding my nerves trying to find interviews on the net, pictures and generally anything I can get my hands on...

I've been stalking him for a while in local libraries, at Waterstones or any bookstore I come across but the last few days I could not bare anymore so I am putting closure by rewarding myself to complete and utter abandon into him and his poetry.

He holds some sort of power that I crave, dead as he is and 6 feet under, he's so alive, so true to himself so brutally honest..His insights, experiences and life style define the libertine in me, define freedom and life with no boundaries.

I can't get over him..

don't try.. is written on his grave..

so I won't...I never will, tell them Hank, tell them...