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Monday, February 7, 2011

Billie Holiday singing Strange Fruit. One of the saddest and most touching jazz songs ever composed about the racial discrimination in North America...

Charles Bukowski


Charles Bukowski was a writer and poet, born in Andernach Germany in 1920, but raised in Los Angeles, California. The son of an American Soldier and a German mother, he studied in Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, quit school, and then moved to New York City to become a writer. His stories and poems are an awakening to the beautiful and sometimes crude realities of life, and are an inspiration beyond measure for the crazy-minded, the hopeless sinners, and the lonesome-hearted... enjoy



The Crunch

too much too little


too fat
too thin
or nobody.


laughter or
tears


haters
lovers


strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks


armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.


an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.


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


people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.


people just are not good to each other
one on one.


the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.


we are afraid.


our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners


it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.


or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone


untouched
unspoken to


watering a plant.


people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.


I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.


but sometimes I think about
it.


the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.


too much
too little


too fat
too thin
or nobody


more haters than lovers.


people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.


meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.


there must be a way.


surely there must be a way that we have not yet
thought of.


who put this brain inside of me?


it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.


it will not say
"no."


QUOTES



"We are Born like this Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes "


"beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average


but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody


not wanting solitude not
understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own


not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world"


"there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled


a space


and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
times


we will know it


we will know it
more than
ever


there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and


we will wait
and
wait


in that space."



READ Love is a Dog from Hell, Poems

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Anis

One of the best poets I've heard nowadays...

I HATE BEING SECOND TO THOSE I PUT FIRST
There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock
— Charles Bukowski

Escribo porque mi cerebro se comunica mejor con mis manos que con la lengua. Porque el papel es un filtro, una coraza, entre mis palabras y los ojos del otro. Porque me odio menos escribiendo que hablando. Porque mientras escribo puedo corregir, escoger una por una las palabras y nadie me interrumpe ni se desespera mientras las encuentro. Por un ameno vicio solitario.
— Héctor A.F

via: http://brokenmachine.tumblr.com/page/3

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