I just finished watching Bukowski: Born Into This, then toddled over to the computer to look at Fark, where I learned that Charles Bukowski died 13 years ago today.Spooky, eh?
I have mixed feelings about Bukowski's work, as I find myself completely unable to take him as a flawed, but complete package. He makes me laugh, but he's a pig. But not completely. And the punk kids are always stealing his books from the library. But at least they're reading them. And he was a lay-about wastrel. But that's just my Protestant work ethic talking. Aw, at some point, I just throw my hands in the air and decide the guy's alright in my book.
I like this poem a lot. Also, I once heard a clip from one of his readings, a poem about being in bed with a woman and farting so loudly that it wakes her up. There's a line that goes something like: "I fart more often than I f***. I am pleased to be mistaken for a foghorn passing in the night."
It cracked me up, but I can't seem to find the poem. Send me the citation, along with your address, and I will send you a shiny prize.
2 comments:
The poem is "competition." It can be found in the collection "Open all night."
Sir, you have made my day - thank you!
And I was serious about that prize. Email me at memccoy at gmail dot com, tell me what kind of books you like, and I will find you something cool and fitting.
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