Discussion:
the genius of Reb Charles Bukowski
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Will Dockery
2017-12-31 10:23:53 UTC
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On Thursday, December 7, 2017 at 10:22:21 PM UTC-5, Michael Pendragon
More excrement.
And even more to come in the future, no doubt.
Yes, whatever the personal judgments of the poetry of Charles Bukowski may
be, there will no doubt be many more collections to come. I read an article
after Buk's death that described literally mounds of typed pages written by
him... love him or hate him, the man was one writing s.o.b.

:)
Will Dockery
2018-01-10 13:14:00 UTC
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On Thursday, December 7, 2017 at 10:22:21 PM UTC-5, Michael Pendragon
More excrement.
And even more to come in the future, no doubt.
---------------------------------------------------
Indeed, since Buk's poetry sells like hotcakes.
Correction: Buk's books sell like hotcakes. He never wrote a poem in his
life.

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No, it is poetry.

It may not be poetry you like and enjoy, but Bukowski was definitely a great
poet.

Even Jim Senetto agrees with me on that, ask him.

:)
Will Dockery
2018-01-10 13:41:29 UTC
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Pickering wrote in message news:0dc6fcad-4457-45a3-bf23-***@googlegroups.com...

Charles Bukowski, 'New Mexico'

I was fairly drunk when it
began and I took out my bottle and used it
along the way. I was reading a week or two after
Kandel and I did not look quite as
pretty but
I brought it off and we
ended up at the Webbs, 6, 8, 10 of
us, and I drank scotch, wine, beer, tequila
and noticed a nice one sitting next to me -
one tooth missing when she smiled,
lovely, and I put my arm around her
and began loading her with bullshit.
when I awakened at 10 a.m. the next morning
I was in a strange house
in bed with this
woman. she was asleep but looked
familiar.
I got up and here was one kid running around in a
crib and another one running around the floor in
pajamas. I picked up a letter addressed to one
"Betsy R.", so I went back and said,
"hey, Betsy, there are kids running around all over
this place."
"oh Hank, damn it, I'm sick. I want to sleep, not
rap."
"but look, the ..."
"make yourself some
coffee."
I put the pot on and the little boy ran up in his
pajamas. I found a shirt and some pants and some
shoes and
dressed him.
then I cleaned a bottle with hot water, filled it
with milk and gave it to the kid in the
crib. he went for
it.
then I went in and squeezed her
hand. "I've got to go. are you all
right ?"
"yes, a little sick. but please don't feel
bad."
I called a yellow cab and we went back across
town.
is this what happened to
D. Thomas ? I thought.
if a man didn't think too much he could be proud of his little
conquests -
except that the women were better than we; asking nothing
as we squirted our poetry
our bullshit our
sperm to
them.
we were sick poets sick
people.
across town I knocked on the door of my host and
hostess.
"what happened ?" they
asked.
"nothing. got
lost."
they sat a beer in front of me
and I drank it as if I were
wordly:
a piece-of-ass
any-night
anywhere
type.
"somebody got a
cigarette ?" I asked.
"sure, sure."
I lit up and asked,
"heard from Creely
lately ?"
not giving a damn whether they had or
not.

-Charles Bukowski

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Definitely poetry... raw and rugged, but nobody ever said art had to be
pretty.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa
Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT

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