there are tons of things in dark deep shadows such as love love is red a flaming rosy fire but is also dark it is a rainy city in blues love is rains and is blue-blended cocktails hard sharp overturning the cup en slightly dizzy dunking steps like moves in dance do swirling spinning bright bubbles flowing up and thirsty- yes thirsty- quenching drinks
missing is also dark a blood stream meandering in the rains in all those rains the rainy city the rainy streets the rainy ankles the rainy knees the rainy face the rainy hair the desire eyes our longing for the night city lonely lights the white pigeon flying out of the darkness in the deepest space
the rains all of the rainy days like jazz music red flag the white balloons the blues beats the flashing candies metal spoons and tiny knife and your steps, broken thoughts into pieces those headlights
in the pouring rains on the heavy roads and those wandering days on the meandering ways those wind blows yes those wind blows through all the years is there anyone listening to and deciphering out finally or turning away his back?
when you wait for the dawn to crawl through the screen like a burglar to take your life away
the snake had crawled the hole, and she said, tell me about yourself.
and I said, I was beaten down long ago in some alley in another world.
and she said, we’re all like pigs slapped down some lane, our grassbrains singing toward the blade.
by god, you’re an odd one, I said.
we sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning.
And it is exactly his content and his style my professors insisted was a mockery of everything an English degree stands for. It’s true, nobody’s going to flip through his volumes and accuse Bukowski’s poems of screaming, “I am poetry!” My professors dismissed his work for being adolescent, asinine, misogynistic, and banal.
Yet his poetry remains endearing and essential to our understanding of the human condition and how hard it is to live.
Some call him the Poet Laureate of Skid Row. He lived where his poems took place—in the armpit of Los Angeles—surrounded by drunks, prostitutes, criminals, the jobless, the homely and the witless. Hecklers and the insane. Based on his poetry (which some critics call nothing more than short anecdotes), any one of these types could easily describe Bukowski himself. He was his own subject matter. A type of Everyman, but it is his empathy for the common laborer–because he was one–that remains engaging:
blue collar solitude
picking up two six-packs after work to hell with dinner going to the apartment and stripping down to your shorts throwing your clothes on the floor climbing onto the bed no shower no bath sitting up against the pillow and cracking open the first tall beer can lighting a cigarette nothing to do nobody to talk to looking at the wallpaper yesterday’s dishes stacked in the sink look out the window the room getting darker open the second can of beer no wife no tv no children
sitting in your underwear drinking beer alone
everything’s gone the foreman the time clock the grocery store clerks the newspaper the coffee shops
there are tons of things
in dark
deep
shadows
such as love
love
is red
a flaming rosy fire
but is also
dark
it is a rainy city in
blues
love
is rains
and
is blue-blended
cocktails
hard
sharp
overturning
the cup
en
slightly
dizzy
dunking
steps
like
moves
in dance
do
swirling
spinning
bright
bubbles
flowing up
and
thirsty-
yes
thirsty-
quenching
drinks
missing
is also
dark
a blood
stream
meandering
in the rains
in all those rains
the rainy city
the rainy streets
the rainy ankles
the rainy knees
the rainy face
the rainy hair
the desire
eyes
our longing for
the night city
lonely
lights
the white
pigeon
flying out
of the darkness
in the deepest
space
the rains
all of
the rainy days
like
jazz
music
red flag
the white balloons
the blues
beats
the flashing
candies
metal spoons
and tiny
knife
and your steps, broken thoughts
into pieces
those headlights
in the pouring rains
on the heavy roads
and those wandering
days
on the meandering ways
those wind blows
yes
those wind blows
through
all the years
is there anyone
listening to and
deciphering out
finally
or turning
away
his
back?
or
may -
be
she loves me!
li
2021/02
有没有中文版本？
幽暗世界
许多情感
是幽暗的
爱是炙热的
玫瑰红色的火焰
也是幽暗的
是幽暗雨巷
飘荡的蓝调
雨
蓝色鸡尾酒
高度
烈口
碰翻的
酒杯
头微微眩晕的舞步
旋转
渴望
的
思念是幽暗的
血液流淌
的小溪
渴望
夜
的灯光
城市
从幽暗里
飞出
一只
白鸽
爵士乐的
旗子
气球
布鲁斯的
节拍
闪光
糖纸
刀子
脚步，碎碎念
的车灯
雨
如此的
蜿蜒
路上
还有
风
对
风
有
谁能听懂
风的话语？
或许
她是非常多情的呢。
立
2021/02/15
有才了！本猫真人面前不说假话，立，你确实是真有才！
L
i
n
m
u
语就不用花猫体了?
when you wait for the dawn to crawl through the screen like a burglar to take your life away
the snake had crawled the hole,
and she said,
tell me about
yourself.
and
I said,
I was beaten down
long ago
in some alley
in another
world.
and she said,
we’re all
like pigs
slapped down some lane,
our
grassbrains
singing
toward the
blade.
by
god,
you’re an
odd one,
I said.
we
sat there
smoking
cigarettes
at
5
in the morning.
And it is exactly his content and his style my professors insisted was a mockery of everything an English degree stands for. It’s true, nobody’s going to flip through his volumes and accuse Bukowski’s poems of screaming, “I am poetry!” My professors dismissed his work for being adolescent, asinine, misogynistic, and banal.
Yet his poetry remains endearing and essential to our understanding of the human condition and how hard it is to live.
Some call him the Poet Laureate of Skid Row. He lived where his poems took place—in the armpit of Los Angeles—surrounded by drunks, prostitutes, criminals, the jobless, the homely and the witless. Hecklers and the insane. Based on his poetry (which some critics call nothing more than short anecdotes), any one of these types could easily describe Bukowski himself. He was his own subject matter. A type of Everyman, but it is his empathy for the common laborer–because he was one–that remains engaging:
blue collar solitude
picking up two six-packs
after work
to hell with dinner
going to the apartment
and stripping down
to your shorts
throwing your clothes
on the floor
climbing onto the bed
no shower
no bath
sitting up against
the pillow
and cracking open
the first tall beer can
lighting a cigarette
nothing to do
nobody to talk to
looking at the wallpaper
yesterday’s dishes
stacked in the sink
look out the window
the room getting darker
open the second can
of beer
no wife
no tv
no children
sitting in your
underwear
drinking beer
alone
everything’s gone
the foreman
the time clock
the grocery store clerks
the newspaper
the coffee shops
the phone rings
you listen
and listen and
listen
until it stops
another beer
hearing the breath
whistle up your
nostrils
wiggling the right
toe
watching
it.
不不不不好意思啦