Just a little something I knocked up...
One of my favorite writers goes by the name of Charles "Hank" Bukowski, the original dirty old man.
Even though he didn't achieve success until later in life, Bukowski was, for lack of a better description, prolific as fuck. He wrote half a dozen novels and countless poems. All while toiling away in the post office.
The thing I love about his work is the fact that it's so visceral and real. He doesn't waste any time mincing words or adding flowery language. Everything is to the point. Anyways, here's some of his work for you to enjoy.
The Last Days of the Suicide Kid
Silly Damned Thing Anyhow
we tried to hide it in the house so that the
neighbors wouldn’t see.
it was difficult, sometimes we both had to
be gone at once and when we returned
there would be excrete and urine all
about.
it wouldn’t toilet train
but it had the bluest eyes you ever
saw
and it ate everything we did
and we often watched tv together.
one evening we came home and it was
gone.
there was blood on the floor,
there was a trail of blood.
I followed it outside and into the garden
and there in the brush it was,
mutilated.
there was a sign hung about its severed
throat:
“we don’t want things like this in our
neighborhood.”
I walked to the garage for a shovel.
I told my wife, “don’t come out here.”
then I walked back with the shovel and
began digging.
I sensed
the faces watching me from behind
drawn blinds.
they had their neighborhood back,
a nice quiet neighborhood with green
lawns, palm trees, circular driveways, children,
churches, a supermarket, etc.
I dug into the earth.
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 whores 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?
Also, Modest Mouse wrote a song about Hank, called Bukowski. (Also, if you like that piece of art, you can download the wallpaper of it here) The lyrics of which are a part of that piece of art I made at the top of the page. Listen here: