Would You Suggest Writing as a Career?
- Thread starter mjp
- Start date
i wrote before i ever heard of Buk and it was shit. i can't recall where i first heard his name but i checked him out and i was totally blown away. it made me dump all the academic crap i've read before and just wrote whatever was on my mind and how i felt. Buk really inspired me to just tell my story and where i came fromand not be afraid. since after writing what i've wanted i've been published in many online and print mags. so i owe a hell of a lot to Buk.
If you're from this part of the world, you'd know that writing ain't a career around here so i suggest you do somethin' more useful with yer time. :). Neah, don't listen to me, I am just kidding. I've been a writer before I ever read Buk, I am a writer still(who isn't? :P), I prefer my native language so I might cut the lines in a poem manner, but it's not likely to translate real poems or writings for the fans here:P. I love to read your creations, though so keep writing, keep posting, keep the poetry
rolling in the mud between us
with it?s big false flirtatious smile
rolling in the mud between us
with it?s big false flirtatious smile
Father Luke
Founding member
Buk Buk Booze
Yeah. I'm a writer. For a brief spell I earned my daily bread from my words. I wrote before I ever found Bukowski, whom our very own Brother Schenker introduced me to in Ham on Rye, many years ago.
I have no doubt that Buk influenced my writing. It's kind of like the same way Fante influenced Bukowski - - the terse, clipped, succinct and short way in which Buk and Fante deliver the goods. So, in effect, I was influenced by Fante through Buk through Brother Schenker.
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.
I do thank Bukowski for giving me the courage to continue despite numerous and heartbreaking setbacks. The fucker had balls.
Yeah. I'm a writer. For a brief spell I earned my daily bread from my words. I wrote before I ever found Bukowski, whom our very own Brother Schenker introduced me to in Ham on Rye, many years ago.
I have no doubt that Buk influenced my writing. It's kind of like the same way Fante influenced Bukowski - - the terse, clipped, succinct and short way in which Buk and Fante deliver the goods. So, in effect, I was influenced by Fante through Buk through Brother Schenker.
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.
I do thank Bukowski for giving me the courage to continue despite numerous and heartbreaking setbacks. The fucker had balls.
number6horse
okyoutwopixiesoutyougo
Bad "Buk-Inspired" Poetry (when you were drunk )
OK - lets be honest
Many of us are writers and poets and creative types here. Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours. Written when we were totally inspired and drunk and giddy on the work of Bukowski. Cmon - I know many of us did. Allow me to go first and embarrass myself !.....
THAT SPELL
on those days
when the muse
sings to me
she usually
grabs me early
and grinds her hips
into mine
and begins whispering
forget your job
your appointments
the phone calls
the weather
traffic and breakfast
we've got work to do
and i always obey
who wouldn't
her visits are jewels
hiding in the dumpster
surprise love notes
under the wiperblades
the receptionist saying
don't worry
it's covered
and my guitar spills forth
and the notebook fills up
and the world
keeps spinning
perfectly well
without my feet on the treadmill.
OK - lets be honest
Many of us are writers and poets and creative types here. Lets share some laugbably bad Buk-type poems of ours. Written when we were totally inspired and drunk and giddy on the work of Bukowski. Cmon - I know many of us did. Allow me to go first and embarrass myself !.....
THAT SPELL
on those days
when the muse
sings to me
she usually
grabs me early
and grinds her hips
into mine
and begins whispering
forget your job
your appointments
the phone calls
the weather
traffic and breakfast
we've got work to do
and i always obey
who wouldn't
her visits are jewels
hiding in the dumpster
surprise love notes
under the wiperblades
the receptionist saying
don't worry
it's covered
and my guitar spills forth
and the notebook fills up
and the world
keeps spinning
perfectly well
without my feet on the treadmill.
the clouds race
the clouds race through the sky
horses in some grand race above our heads...
the sun is beating down here all the power of God
in its beams- perhaps the light of the world
and all round streets houses
suburban bliss and safety
and perhaps as such a kind of lying
as the wars happen in distant absurd countries
as the sinister juggerant bombs are polished
as the cheese bubbles and pops under the grill
as the sweat emits from a strangers armpits
as old age pensioners wither in the heat gracefully
this is the life this here
hand and foot
mouth and eye
body part
with the land part
joining
piece by piece
eye by eye
life here
a great tapestry
of lives
and memories
as ever
cross bend
and contort
as the sun bakes down
as the minds begin tp wander
...and clouds continue to gallop
through the space of the world
the clouds race through the sky
horses in some grand race above our heads...
the sun is beating down here all the power of God
in its beams- perhaps the light of the world
and all round streets houses
suburban bliss and safety
and perhaps as such a kind of lying
as the wars happen in distant absurd countries
as the sinister juggerant bombs are polished
as the cheese bubbles and pops under the grill
as the sweat emits from a strangers armpits
as old age pensioners wither in the heat gracefully
this is the life this here
hand and foot
mouth and eye
body part
with the land part
joining
piece by piece
eye by eye
life here
a great tapestry
of lives
and memories
as ever
cross bend
and contort
as the sun bakes down
as the minds begin tp wander
...and clouds continue to gallop
through the space of the world
Like a crab
you could go backwards. . .
Earth-vexing barnacle.
Saucy onion-eyed clotpole.
Remember when Richard
spoke of The Rotton Mouth
of Death?
And your strange matters with art,
not quite noble enough at that young age?
Time moves and we still hang onto life. . .
some of us anyway.
I guess others are fond of the
baseness hugger-muggerville
get down;
a
dreadfully superficial,
ignorant,
unweighing
type
of
disembodied space.
Sometimes I have it too, fucker.
you could go backwards. . .
Earth-vexing barnacle.
Saucy onion-eyed clotpole.
Remember when Richard
spoke of The Rotton Mouth
of Death?
And your strange matters with art,
not quite noble enough at that young age?
Time moves and we still hang onto life. . .
some of us anyway.
I guess others are fond of the
baseness hugger-muggerville
get down;
a
dreadfully superficial,
ignorant,
unweighing
type
of
disembodied space.
Sometimes I have it too, fucker.
number6horse
okyoutwopixiesoutyougo
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 ?
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 ?
HenryChinaski
Founding member
lol this is a funny thread.
the nine to five
while everybody else
is out
chasing their menial, nine to five jobs,
I am waiting for the word
to strike me
with that golden sentance
that will make
the ugliest of women
weep like dogs
while the world around them
goes on
as if nothing had happened.
the nine to five
while everybody else
is out
chasing their menial, nine to five jobs,
I am waiting for the word
to strike me
with that golden sentance
that will make
the ugliest of women
weep like dogs
while the world around them
goes on
as if nothing had happened.
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
number6horse
okyoutwopixiesoutyougo
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-
and
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
Be?
Also, there are
Million dollar homes on the stinky river where
Drug related
Murders
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
Downtown.
There?s a pubic hair stuck in my throat like a grape stem
From the wrong woman-
And-
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
Then
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,
smites
the angel
of death,
big time.
And the angel of death came
To take the head
Of the butcher
Who had slain the ox
Who drank the water-
and
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
Be?
Also, there are
Million dollar homes on the stinky river where
Drug related
Murders
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
Downtown.
There?s a pubic hair stuck in my throat like a grape stem
From the wrong woman-
And-
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
Then
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,
smites
the angel
of death,
big time.
thebluesman
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,
wine-stained,
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.
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,
wine-stained,
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.
Okay, you asked for it; don't say I didn't warn you.
SD
SD
companions in madness
over the crest of
a mountain
I see
three travelers:
and we walk along, not
speaking much, for,
what is there to
say?
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;
some
say we were
fools to
listen to the moon
as he sang our
song;
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
following
the roadside
and pathway
of the
saints and fools
who had gone
before;
and there,
before night falls
forever on this
cosmos
where we've
spent our
time; it
might not be
seen
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;
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
say?
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;
some
say we were
fools to
listen to the moon
as he sang our
song;
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
following
the roadside
and pathway
of the
saints and fools
who had gone
before;
and there,
before night falls
forever on this
cosmos
where we've
spent our
time; it
might not be
seen
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
buy
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?
gone
?
Pops
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
buy
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?
gone
?
Pops
A joy to read.
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?
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!
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's not poetry
oil paint
it's what i do
http://members.cox.net/billschafer/oil-paintings-003reduced.jpg
i used a picture
from 'shakespeare never did this'
canvas size: (estimated) 24in. x 30in.
i gave it away as a gift 11 years ago
to a woman whose heart i broke
oil paint
it's what i do
http://members.cox.net/billschafer/oil-paintings-003reduced.jpg
i used a picture
from 'shakespeare never did this'
canvas size: (estimated) 24in. x 30in.
i gave it away as a gift 11 years ago
to a woman whose heart i broke
the only good poet
One retreat after another without peace.
it's really good. i notice some of the van gogh brush strokes. intentional?
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.
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.
Last edited by a moderator:
F
futureactor
Me-ism.
There use to be Morrison, Elvis, and Fonzy,
and they were cool
Those guys started something,
They filled a void
Now everyone's cool
There use to be Morrison, Elvis, and Fonzy,
and they were cool
Those guys started something,
They filled a void
Now everyone's cool