Mockingbird ​Wish Me Luck 3 csillagozás

Charles Bukowski: Mockingbird Wish Me Luck

Mockingbird Wish Me Luck captures glimpses of Charles Bukowski's view on life through his poignant poetry: the pain, the hate, the love, and the beauty. He writes of lechery and pain while finding still being able to find its beauty.

Eredeti megjelenés éve: 1972

>!
Ecco, New York, 2002
160 oldal · ISBN: 9780876851388

Várólistára tette 2

Kívánságlistára tette 2


Népszerű idézetek

>!
danaida P

man and woman in bed at 10 p.m.

I feel like a can of sardines, she said.
I feel like a band-aid, I said,
I feel like a tuna fish sandwich, she said.
I feel like a sliced tomato, I said.
I feel like it’s gonna rain, she said.
I feel like the clock has stopped, I said.
I feel like the door’s unlocked, she said.
I feel like an elephant’s gonna walk in, I said.
I feel like we ought to pay the rent, she said.
I feel like we oughta get a job, I said.
I feel like you oughta get a job, she said.

I don’t feel like working, I said.

I feel like you don’t care for me, she said.
I feel like we oughta make love, I said.
I feel like we’ve been making too much love, she said.
I feel like we oughta make more love, I said.
I feel like you oughta get a job, she said.
I feel like you oughta get a job, I said.
I feel like a drink, she said.
I feel like a 5th of whiskey, I said.
I feel like we’re going to end up on wine, she said.
I feel like you’re right, I said.
I feel like giving up, she said.
I feel like I need a bath, I said.
I feel like you need a bath too, she said.
I feel like you ought to bathe my back, I said.
I feel like you don’t love me, she said.
I feel like I do love you, I said.
I feel that thing in me now, she said.
I feel that thing in you now too, I said.
I feel like I love you now, she said.
I feel like I love you more than you do me, I said.
I feel wonderful, she said, I feel like screaming.
I feel like going on forever, I said.
I feel like you can, she said.
I feel, I said.
I feel, she said.

>!
danaida P

life

to be eaten by a hog with
bad breath
as the lemons swing in the wind
yellow and ours.

>!
Lifeonmars

[girl in a miniskirt reading the bible outside my window]

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 rhythmic 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 young 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.

17

>!
danaida P

this is the way it goes and goes and goes

     “All your writing about pain and suffering is
     a bunch of bullshit.”—

just because I told you that rock music
hurts my head
just because we have slept and awakened and
eaten together
just because we’ve been in cars and at racetracks
together
in parks in bathtubs in rooms
together
just because we’ve seen the same swan and the same
dog at the same time
just because we’ve seen the same wind blow the same
curtain
you have suddenly become a literary critic

just because you have sculpted my head
and read my books
and told me of your loves and your flirtations and
your travels
just because I know the name of your daughter
and have changed a flat tire for you
you have suddenly become a literary critic

just because you’ve had 3 poems accepted by a mimeo mag
just because you’re writing a novel about your own madness
just because you shake your ass and have long brown hair
you have suddenly become a literary critic

just because I have fucked you 144 times
you have suddenly become a literary critic

well, then, tell me,
of all these writers…who’s pain is real?
what? yes, I might have
guessed—your pain is
real. so, in the best interest of us all
wave goodbye to the living who have lost the strength
to weep, and
as white ladies in pink rooms put on
blue and green earrings,
wave goodbye to me.

>!
danaida P

the inquisitor

in the bathtub rereading Céline’s
Journey to the End of the Night
the phone rings
and I get out
grab a towel.
some guy from SMART SET,
he wants to know what’s in my mailbox
how my life has been
going.
I tell him there isn’t anything in the
mailbox or the
life.
he thinks that I’m holding
back. I hope that
I am.

>!
danaida P

lifting weights at 2 a.m.

queers do this
or is it that you’re
afraid to die?
biceps, triceps, forceps,
what are you going to do
with muscles?
well, muscles please the ladies
and keep the bullies
at bay—
so
what?
is it worth it?
is it worth the collected works
of Balzac?
or a 3 week vacation
in Spain?
or, is it another way of
suffering?
if you got paid to do it,
you’d hate it.
if a man got paid to make love,
he’d hate it.

still, one needs the
exercise—
this writing game:
only the brain and soul get
worked-out.
quit your bitching and
do it.
while other people are
sleeping
you’re lifting a mountain
with rivers of poems
running off.

>!
Lifeonmars

[ an interesting night ]

my girlfriend
she started smashing
all my bottles
my whiskey bottle and my
beer bottles,
meanwhile
yelling and screaming,
then she ran
out the door.
3 police arrived 5 minutes
later,
one holding shotgun,
and they asked
various questions,
one of them being:
what do you
do?
I’m a writer,
I said.
the cop smirked at
me, walked over to the
typewriter,
picked up some papers
and started
reading.
it was my 2,000 word essay
on the meaning of
suicide.
he didn’t seem much
interested.
after they left
I went all the way to
Altadena
and slept with a fine
22 year old girl
some pot
3 cats
3 homosexuals
a 7 year old boy
a dog, and
a 24 by 20 photo
of me
hanging over the fireplace,
looking
wise.

134


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David Markson: This Is Not a Novel
Allen Ginsberg: Howl and Other Poems
Sylvia Plath: Ariel
Sylvia Plath: Collected Poems
101 Great American Poems
Sylvia Plath: Selected Poems
William Faulkner: Early Prose and Poetry
Elizabeth Bishop: Poems
Ezra Pound: The Cantos
Allen Ginsberg: Selected Poems, 1947–1995