busblog

nothing in here is true

  1. Wednesday, July 16, 2014

    every writers goal shouldnt be to write three good books like bukowski 

    tumblr_n7vzjbEsH61rkyq1oo5_500

    it should be to write one good one.

    like a really good one.

    one thats more about all of us instead of just you.

    one that future Tumblr kids can quote on their hologram blogs.

    one that has meaning and surprises and is edgy and woulda gotten banned just like all the other great banned books.

    one thats so good you need to write it under a fake name because it tells all the juicy stuff thats still juicy long after youre dead.

    lets say you had a grandpa and hes long gone and you get a package one day from the people who now own his house

    and they send you an old golden paged diary with a note:

    we found this in our attic. it belonged to your relative. its so personal and good we dont feel right keeping it.

    we googled you and found how to get this to you.

    we promise we didnt read too much. sorry.

    and when you read it you’re all GRAMPA!

    thats the book we should be writing right now.

  2. Wednesday, May 28, 2014

    some ppl type about bukowski like they know him 

    bukowskithey pretend theyve read him.

    likewise they think they know the first thing about this 22 year old virgin

    living in isla vista.

    i can imagine being on the moon

    but i have no clue what it would be like to be 22 and never had even held hands with a girl

    i was a 21 year old virgin in isla vista many moons ago.

    long before instagram and facebook and twitter and youtube.

    i cant imagine what weird ideas i would have had about my classmates if that was shoved in my face

    but id not only kissed a girl or two before that, but had love.

    still, i dont know the first thing about that stupid sad murderer who is now dead

    and good riddance.

    anyways, for some reason when you mention bukowski to some people all they remember is when he kicked his adorable wife Linda in that doc.

    i flinched too when i saw it at first.

    we forget that the drunken fool, the guy who rarely refused barfights (in his tales), could turn on the woman who loved him the most. on camera. for a brief moment in time.

    we forget that people are complicated.

    we try to pretend that we aren’t.

    heres my favorite bukowski poem

    bluebird

    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I’m not going
    to let anybody see
    you.
    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the ****s and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    he’s
    in there.

    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    works?
    you want to blow my book sales in
    Europe?
    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody’s asleep.
    I say, I know that you’re there,
    so don’t be
    sad.
    then I put him back,
    but he’s singing a little
    in there, I haven’t quite let him
    die
    and we sleep together like
    that
    with our
    secret pact
    and it’s nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don’t
    weep, do
    you?

  3. Tuesday, May 27, 2014
  4. Saturday, May 24, 2014

    one of the best things about bukowski is he was not pretty 

    bukowski with catand yet he still got laid.

    truly valuable lesson because any man can strut around if he’s tall handsome and wealthy

    imagine youre squat, pockmarked, fat and you live a block from skid row.

    if you can pull with all that working against you then yeah people should read your books.

    last night a rich pretty boy from the valley drove a new bmw around a college town and shot at blonde girls who in his mind wouldn’t give him the time of day

    he killed six college kids including one that he ran over.

    in a series of youtube videos he said he was frustrated because he was 22 and hadnt even held a girls hand let alone had sex with anyone

    despite being what he considered to be beautiful.

    charles bukowski needs to be taught in every school.

    bukowski too was dismayed by a good chunk of american society but he pushed through.

    in fact the main themes of his poetry and prose is no matter what cards you are dealt, you play them

    you dont turn over the table, you dont cheat, you dont raise your fist at the sky and ask why wasnt i born a six foot five water polo god

    you do you your thing, you make your own luck, you turn to the woman next to you

    and you accept what comes next.

    despite being ridiculously prolific, bukowski would sometimes go back to his masterpieces and edit them before they were published or placed in an anthology.

    the 1977 poem The Crunch probably would have resonated best with last night’s killer who was quickly shot dead by local sheriffs.

    here are the three versions of it, all great in their little ways.

    “there is a loneliness in this world so great
    that you can see it in the slow movement of
    the hands of a clock”

    states bukowski. plainly. almost scientifically.

    please tell me the city college virgin wouldnt have seen himself in this bit from the final edited version:

    “we forget the terror of one person
    aching in one room
    alone
    unkissed
    untouched
    cut off
    watering a plant alone
    without a telephone that would never
    ring
    anyway.”

    the lesson of bukowski is he can bust out with something like that, such a clear stark blast

    but when he’s done he pours a glass of wine,

    smiles to himself

    drinks the wine, alone or otherwise

    and feels beautiful inside

    where it counts.

  5. Saturday, October 19, 2013

    i understand fear, trust me, i do. but i also have experienced love 

    bukowski

    and i pity the fools who avoid true love

    omg omg omg love

    the kind that doesnt fade away after the typical expiration date

    the kind that if you werent naked with each other youd still be obsessive friends

    true love

    ever lasting love.

    i pity the fools who shy away from that sorta love cuz theyre afraid it might hurt them somehow.

    afraid it doesnt exist. they know it exists.

    they read how love inspires people to write novels and movies and carve giant statues

    and hold boom boxes over their heads

    in the rain

    under the cherry moon.

    somethings gonna kill us. every movie ends.

    no sense in playing it safe. there is no safe. there is just a cliff in the distance that we all fall off.

    people are gonna cry at your funeral pretty girl.

    make sure those tears are for the beautiful explosion of joy your life was

    and not for the potential you never ever reached.

  6. Friday, August 16, 2013

    today is charles bukowski’s birthday, he’s 93 

    bukowski reading the busblog

    and you might say but hes dead and id say prove it.

    where is his replacement? who’s the new bukowski?

    you cant be dead if you dont have a sequel.

    who is writing poems still and short stories and novels.

    someone who will be known far and wide for not just now but for decades later.

    a man of the people. a hobo. a drunk. a fighter. a lover. a writer.

    “We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”

    hollywood bowl

    to pre celebrate his birthday i took a pretty girl to the hollywood bowl to hear some classical musics

    his favorite.

    just so happened that gustavo dudamel was rockin the joint this week. he started off with Aida on sunday

    and then had two nights of Requiem to celebrate the man’s passing

    it was a warm night, the young lady brought a nice bottle of white

    and made the most delicious vegan deviled eggs from little white potatoes and witchcraft

    and also created boneless chicken wings from sassafrass dust and sweet potatoes

    tasted just like chicken.

    for some reason the bowl wasnt packed which surprised me because the weather was perfect.

    if bukowski was there he would have have fallen down drunk

    scraped both knees

    and laughed into the hollywood night.

  7. Tuesday, November 6, 2012
  8. Wednesday, October 17, 2012

    North of no west 

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    I took the train to work today. I think I’m going to make a habit of it. My work pays for public transportation. Which is a nice thing, because I can read one hour in and one hour out.

    Today I am reading Henry Charles Bukowski The finest poet of 20th-century. He does everything right it’s hard to compete and impossible to compete so you may as well just enjoy.

    Last night I had a delicious dinner with a beautiful girl. I think Charles would have appreciated it.

    When I dropped her off instantly two very suspicious men walked near her and made me fear for every woman out there.

    Good thing there’s guns.

  9. Saturday, August 25, 2012

    The laughing heart by charles bukowski read by tom waits 

    your life is your life
    don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
    be on the watch.
    there are ways out.
    there is a light somewhere.
    it may not be much light but
    it beats the darkness.
    be on the watch.
    the gods will offer you chances.
    know them.
    take them.
    you can’t beat death but
    you can beat death in life, sometimes.
    and the more often you learn to do it,
    the more light there will be.
    your life is your life.
    know it while you have it.
    you are marvelous
    the gods wait to delight
    in you.

  10. Thursday, August 16, 2012

    today is charles bukowski’s birthday, he woulda been 92 

    he’s also my hero, duh.

    he’s america’s greatest poet of the 20th century, maybe ever.

    this one is one he wrote in a poetry book called “The Last Night of the Earth Poems”

    it’s called “Question and Answer”

    he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
    night, running the blade of the knife
    under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
    of all the letters he had received
    telling him that
    the way he lived and wrote about
    that–
    it had kept them going when
    all seemed
    truly
    hopeless.

    putting the blade on the table, he
    flicked it with a finger
    and it whirled
    in a flashing circle
    under the light.

    who the hell is going to save
    me? he
    thought.

    as the knife stopped spinning
    the answer came:
    you’re going to have to
    save yourself.

    still smiling,
    a: he lit a
    cigarette
    b: he poured
    another
    drink
    c: gave the blade
    another
    spin.