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Today’s Poem By Bukowski

darkmatter0205 — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 14:59:23 +0000

8 Count

from my bed
I watch 3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I’d
let you
know,
fucker.

–Charles Bukowski

Posted in poetry Tagged: bukowski, poetry

Today’s Poem: Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window, by Charles Bukowski

darkmatter0205 — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 23:53:12 +0000

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthodox to the
west.

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it’s a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rhythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God.

Posted in poetry Tagged: bukowski, miniskirt, poem

Today’s Poem: A Radio With Guts by Charles Bukowski

darkmatter0205 — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 15:03:05 +0000

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I’d tell my woman,
“Ah, what a marvelous radio!”
the next morning I’d take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I’d take the window
back to the glass man.
I don’t remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

Posted in poetry Tagged: bukowski, poetry