morals died with God,
you’re on your
life has abused me and I have mis-
I enjoy attacking the sun with a
the word is one of
it can enlighten or
by the time they get to your books you
are no longer in your
you are on the next page, in your next book.
a killing unhappiness:
what you might have
it’s strange, isn’t it?
you can’t compare it to
yet you quickly
that there is
and with the people
the human voice besides being basically
ugly also reminds me of the human
and one of the last things I want to
think of and one of the first things I
want to get away from when I listen to
classical music is
the same all murderous kiss
of death clothed in a creative
I became a writer but when I was a boy
I used to dream of becoming the village idiot
I live through each day, Filled with faith and desire; And die when the Night comes In heaven−born fire.
I turn aside to the holy, the inexpressible, the mysterious Night.
To the Light is its period allotted; but beyond time and space is the empire of the Night.
In Death, eternal Life hath been revealed: And thou art Death, by thee we first are healed.
Soft is the end as the lyre’s mournful trembling. Remembrance fades i’ the gloom a shadow throws: So sang the song, a dreadful doom dissembling. Yet undefined remained eternal Night, The stern reminder of some distant might.
the gods are done with me and them and this, the last useless word looking for a place to die.
I climbed off a park bench to engage the giants of literature in battle. I lived with women madder than the gods themselves.
I lived on a candy bar a day. I was engaging the giants of literature. the ladies descended like locusts. I threw people off my front porch. I was engaging the giants. the giants were not aware of this. only I was aware. I climed off the park bench to engage the giants of literature.
I didn’t think that they were all that good.
tell me, do you?
this darkness shakes me like a dirty rag! human waste on parade throughout the centuries! why am I the last one alive? there’s no answer to that.
for want of something to do we keep slaying our small dragons as the big one waits.
it has to be madness, it was always madness, this endless search for the ultimate truth that still can’t be stopped.
about our argument tonight whatever it was about and no matter how unhappy it made us feel
remember that there is a cat somewhere adjusting to the space of itself with a delightful grace
in other words magic persists without us no matter what we may try to do to spoil it.
the last war will be one man sitting in a chair laughing at it all.
– Quotes from “Bone Palace Ballet: new poems” by Charles Bukowski
Thou reader throbbest life and pride and love the same as I, Therefore for thee the following chants.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
I do not press my fingers across my mouth
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars
My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern, Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years…
Each one who passes is consider’d, each who stops is consider’d, not a single one can it fail.
I do not know it – it is without name – it is a word unsaid
It is not chaos or death – it is form, union, plan – it is eternal life – it is Happiness.
The love of the body of a man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you, Each has his or her place in the procession.
(What is this that frees me so in storms? What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)
everything is so sweetly awful, so continuously and
sweetly awful: the art of consumation: life eating
whatever forever is Mozart came as close as
the impossibility of being human all too human this breathing in and out out and in these punks these cowards these champions these mad dogs of glory moving this little bit of light toward us impossibly.
– quotes from “You get so alone at times that it just makes sense” by Charles Bukowski
the proclaimers are everywhere. they are always getting ready. they seldom begin. and when they do they quit easily.
we were never meant to be what we are or where we are, we are looking for an escape, some music from the sun, the girl we never found. we are betting on the miracle again there before the purple mountains
and what about the dark streets of Dublin? the last page of the book? the green park bench alone? the last necktie? the last footstep behind you?
this incomplete sob of darkness. a wingless bird waiting. a druid in the wasted light. a drunk in the gutter. the singing of fools and the volcano laughing.
– quotes from “Bone palace ballet: new poems” by Charles Bukowski