Would You Suggest Writing as a Career?

[bright]

well,i cant help it, when i feel blue, i write...dunno if its even buk inspired,well,the form resembles:


The Basics

If you are treating people differently,

than you want them
to treat you,

you are asking for something
impossible.

Its only when you treat them
according to your wishes,
that your dream becomes,

at least,

possible.

 

[bongobill]

bravo, dull

i love that message

 

[justine]

Bill, your painting is stunning

 

[pig ear press]

*cough* *cough*

Worker in the paper

So many corporate dens
are looking for an 'ideas man'

I know one

I've seen him
getting dinner from a bin

running for two quids worth of Big Issue

drinking Tennants
while sitting in the sun

this
this forgotten dreamer
is a born entrepeneur

picking apple for pie scams

ghost tours
for ghastly tourists

tin can orchestra's
£10 production

Yes my wielders of power
here he is

Your 'Idea's Man'

maybe by your feet

under that newspaper

sometimes

sometimes there's something real and true
in those

you know

 

[the only good poet]

enjoyed your poem bedsitbuk. it's buk-inspired, ie. subject matter, but doesn't try to emulate his voice.

 

[pig ear press]

ta very much. Its inspired by a guy I know who roams the streets of Brighton. Everytime I speak to him he's got some crazy new scheme to get him off the streets.

 

[the only good poet]

head like a dead fish to the sunken wreck

old university profs
writing their stiff shit
to be swallowed by
jack shit

grey men in grey suits
nibbling at the root
of all mankind

there is more between us
than space and time​

 

[pig ear press]

feeling like putting some words down today, so I thought I'd share on this filed away thread. I've blown the cyber-cobwebs off so here goes :rolleyes:

In a station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough

-Ezra Pound

*well there you go that's how good poetry goes, now for mine :eek: *

The Printed Line

staring at lines
I am sure has sent many men away
but
for those of us who can find a home
a home amongst these printed spaces
we find a quiet place

do not fear the solace
for with time
we shall be joined by the ink
& she shall comfort our souls
then bring forth the words

for then we shall no longer be alone
just amongst friends


The shelf

old dusty boots
never to be worn again
between trophies
& sun bleached photographs
how melancholic
that you shall no longer be amongst the scrum
just displayed
like a memorial

a reminder

of what all our successes
shall become


*thankyou for listening*:)

 

[Bukfan]

I like "The printed line"...:)

 

[Ona Nizm]

Doorsteps Are Nothing

Passion so deep
Comes out as something else.
I try to weep I do
But all I do is laugh.
Ah well, there are doorsteps to sit upon
a bony ass to contemplate,
I smother the chance at smiling
And watch the others pass by
and go home;
Sunset coming in like jets
reddening the sky.
I forget she made me return the housekey.

I pass a store and buy some booze
my flat is musty and vacant
even more so now that I'm here;
the furniture anticipates,
the shelves just groan. All of this, life, love, the rest,
all of it just shiver and ambush.

The first night in three years alone.
I finish the last beer.

And wank to claim title to loneliness.

 

[Desmond Jones]

The Last Bar on Earth

After the last arguement ever,
The divorce final,
fines paid,
dues done,
in complete surrender,
I find the last bar on earth.

memories lose intensity
people begin to smile again
my teeth are finally fixed,
sleep returns,
We're in... the last bar on earth.

Over on that stool that girl from high school is sitting,
still pretty, now smiling
good friends are calling me over with pitchers and joints,
the bouncer is joining and calling me by my first name,
he's got my back,
at the last bar on earth.

The Juke box has them all, Al Green, James Brown, Allman Brothers, Flaming Groovies,
and that girl from high school is dancing by herself in the corner, while we sing along,
in the last bar on earth.

Tommorrow we work, tonight we play,
hoping the biker takes the pool table defeat easily
doesn't return for blood,
at the last bar on earth.

but hey, the bouncers got my back
and my friends are getting me drunk and stoned
in the last bar on earth.

 

[place holder]

a cup of coffee

he asked me a question,
but i wasn't paying attention,
or didn't care.

either way,
he rattled on about his life.

how everything had gone to
hell.

how his wife had been fucking
another man.

and made him sign divorce papers,
giving her half of everything
he had.

"tough luck." i said.

"no luck." he responded.

"hey, lets go get a cup coffee at
that café."

"all right."

we walked inside,
took a booth and waited for the waitress
to come to our table.

she was a plump lady with a big round ass
and moved like an earthquake erupting.

i watched her wipe her fat fingers
on the towel sticking out from the
front of her uniform.

"can i take your orders gentlemen?"
she asked kindly.

"i'll have a coffee, black" I told her.

"fuck you whore," my friend shouted,
"you're one of them."
"you no good for nothing cunt."

i looked at the now distressed waitress,
prepared to hide in the back kitchen,
or get the also plump cook to toss this
vulgar patron out on his
misogynist ass.

i interrupted,
"we'll have two black coffees to go, please."

as I stepped outside, i asked him,
"what was that all about?"

"what?!" he responded frantically.

he then sipped his coffee,
"this coffee taste like diarrhea."

how he knew what diarrhea tasted like,
i didn't bother to ask.

he then poured it out on the sidewalk
and dropped the paper cup in the
sewer.

i tasted my coffee,
it was fine - fresh and hot.

some people just never seem to get rid
of that bitter taste.

 

[place holder]

drinking dos equis lager
from a green
bottle.

or reading dostoevsky
from a paperback
novel.

madness
is just a dark
corner in my
head.

where i hide out
from humanity
as if my life were half
bled.

strumming a
black guitar
until the strings
snap.

trying to speak
without the
distorted
feedback.

as poverty
becomes a
world wide
disease.

amongst those
who believe
that only money
can set them
free.

but i've checked
the cost and i've
counted the
change.




just to ensure
that i still had
a dollar to my
name.

but does it pay
to notice
that the world is
backwards.

like rebuilding
a nation
with tanks
instead of
tractors.

where terrorism's
a factor
to those who
defecate it.

so i turn on my radio:
i want to be sedated.

 

[bright]

good stuff, place holder, i like it.

 

[place holder]

thanks bright, i dunno.

Wine

only the ending sounds honest.
no one ever notices a man dying inside.
even GOD dreams of better days.
as our hearts fill like glasses of wine.

 

[place holder]

Laugh Out Loud

laughs like a broken record,
as he shouts,
"don't you get it?
"don't you get it?"

and the louder he laughs,
the funnier he thinks he is.
"don't you get it?"

"you have no sense of humor,"
he says to me.

and him telling me that
was the only time i've ever seen him
look serious.

no, no,
i did not get it.

i don't believe anyone there really
got it, but they were good at acting
the role.

then i stood up to leave the bar,
all i could hear was his laughter,
growing louder and louder and louder,
then softer and softer then nothing.

as the door closed behind me,
i walked aimlessly outside,
feeling glad that i didn't get it,
and pray that i never do.

 

[steve]

The perfect note is the only note you can hit that is absolutly correct,Zappa Beefheart.

 

[Rob.]

You guys aren't trying hard enough. This is truly bad...

Dogs Are So Cliche

flea bitten
mange ridden

there's
no more fight
in that dog.

he don't hunt.

that dog
is too far
along in years
to learn new tricks.

let him sleep,
let him lie,
let him dream
of chasing
one
last
cat.

 

[bright]

I did my best, this one totally sucks:

Hairtrouble

Decided a few weeks ago,
and got aware of
today,
to get a haircut
more often so
people would,
eventually,
talk to me and,
only afterwards,
notice im different.

..no, wait, even bader, NewSpeakVersion:

Troubled Hair

Decided to
get a haircut so
people would
talk me and
notice im different.

ha.

 

[poetlizard]

Random thoughts shook in a box of bones

Another swig of beer
Another swallow of whiskey
Another piss
And the fishbowl clouds

Waiting for something
Like cat eyes in the dark

As I surround myself
With things just broken
Enough to be alive

As I attempt to suck
Electricity from the air
And the words swim
In bowels of confusion

The shock of static
Bare-feet shuffled on
Long hair carpet

As the assembly lines jam
And the conveyor belts snap

As the workers run for the doors
They left unlocked on their way in

There's something about that splinter
Of light from a crack in the doorway

A death train emerging from tunnel
Into heaven morning

And everything is pregnant

The pour is slow
As I watch her unhook the hinges
The bindings of her bra

Breastbone cradle
Nipple connected to areola
Where the milk of a woman grows

My hand opens like a newborn
Flower

Reaches for the brightest invention
And a thousand tongues weep for
A tingle of the taste

As I lick the crease
Of a rejected letter

The ink of the envelope
A nose bleed upon virgin snow

A wooden head full of matches
A scalp full of fuses
Ribcage rattles with a steel drum
Planted in the bomb

And there it walks
Along the crazy-8
Hitchhiker highway

With a thumb in a pocket
Stashed with tickets to anywhere

To here

 

[number6horse]

Excellent examples !

So glad this thread has continued :)

 

[Olaf]

frigid, like an icecube in bed

frigid
like an icecube in bed

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

bully for you,
asshole!

fear the faggy kingdom
sleep with the neurosis
on bed.

everyone
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

imagination,
running rings round you....

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

someone
anyone
everyone
anonymous
someones of time
I salute you
whoever I am...!

god,
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
hopeless

eventually
you light a
cigarette
wonder
what at the fuss
was about

you shake,
curse the job
the sky sings
thunder

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

listen,
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.

:mad:

 

[babalama]

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.
IT'S NOT NORMAL.'
" 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.

 

[roni]

[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.

 

[Bukfan]

Good poem, Roni! Tears are almost dropping into my keyboard...

 

[justine]

i was searching for a thread about raymond carver but came across this one instead. it seemed like a good one to revive, there's some good poetry here. and also, what mjp says about the deceptively simple style of bukowski's writing is pertinent to this link i found:
http://www.yankeepotroast.org/archives/2007/06/raymond_carver.html

i'm a huge carver fan, but even i found this pretty funny.

 

[BEAST]

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....

 

[stillman]

bukowski chick lit

also from Yankee Pot Roast (home of the raymond carver mad libs):

Back from the Dead and Desperate for Cash, Charles Bukowski Tries to Write a Chick Lit Novel

http://www.yankeepotroast.org/archives/2006/08/back_from_the_d_1.html

 

[rjwink666]

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.

 

[Short Bus]

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.
11:01
12:15
1:32
2:20.
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