Pleasures of the Damned
367 pages

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367 pages

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The Pleasures of the Damned is a selection of the best poetry from America's most iconic and imitated poet, Charles Bukowski. Celebrating the full range of the poet's extraordinary sensibility and his uncompromising linguistic brilliance, these poems cover a lifetime of experience, from his renegade early work to never-before-collected poems penned during the final days before his death. Selected by John Martin, Bukowski's long-time editor and the publisher of the legendary Black Sparrow Press, this stands as what Martin calls 'the best of the best of Bukowski'.



Publié par
Date de parution 29 mars 2012
Nombre de lectures 0
EAN13 9781847678874
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0640€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.


the mockingbird his wife, the painter on the sidewalk and in the sun the elephants of Vietnam dark night poem the last days of the suicide kid tabby cat metamorphosis a poem is a city a smile to remember a free 25-page booklet they, all of them, know a future congressman eulogy the drowning fooling Marie (the poem) the young man on the bus stop bench for they had things to say harbor freeway south schoolyards of forever in the lobby sex something for the touts, the nuns, the grocery clerks and you … blue beads and bones like a cherry seed in the throat turnabout the girl outside the supermarket it is not much 2 Outside, As Bones Break in My Kitchen The Japanese Wife the harder you try the lady in red the shower i was glad the angel who pushed his wheelchair a time to remember the wrong way no wonder a threat to my immortality my telephone Carson McCullers Mongolian coasts shining in light putrefaction where was Jane? something about a woman Sunday lunch at the Holy Mission trashcan lives school days grass crucifix in a deathhand the screw-game millionaires when you wait for the dawn to crawl through the screen like a burglar to take your life away the talkers art advice for some young man in the year 2064 a.d. ice for the eagles girl in a miniskirt reading the Bible outside my window hell is a lonely place the girls and the birds 1813–1883 no leaders, please song one for Sherwood Anderson bow wow love the day the epileptic spoke when Hugo Wolf went mad in a neighborhood of murder the strangest sight you ever did see the 2nd novel junk Mademoiselle from Armentières now society should realize … the souls of dead animals the tragedy of the leaves the loner The Genius of the Crowd German bar the snow of Italy for Jane: with all the love I had, which was not enough: notice for Jane eulogy to a hell of a dame was Li Po wrong? the night I saw George Raft in Vegas I am eaten by butterflies the veryest man mowing the lawn across the way from me oh, yes Phillipe’s 1950 downtown elephants in the zoo girl on the escalator the shit shits big time loser come on in! the bakers of 1935 secret laughter an empire of coins what? the American Flag Shirt now she’s free gold in your eye a great writer the smoking car the shoelace self-inflicted wounds Verdi the young lady who lives in Canoga Park life of the king my failure a boy and his dog liberated woman and liberated man the crunch funhouse the poetry reading somebody the colored birds poem for personnel managers: my fate my atomic stockpile Bruckner (2) hello, how are you? vacancy batting slump bang bang the pleasures of the damned one more good one the little girls hissed ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha thoughts from a stone bench in Venice scene in a tent outside the cotton fields of Bakersfield: 3:16 and one half … a literary discussion butterflies my friend William safe starve, go mad, or kill yourself the beautiful lady those marvelous lunches The Look: the big one the genius about the PEN conference what a man I was Scarlet like a flower in the rain a killer prayer in bad weather melancholia eat your heart out I made a mistake she comes from somewhere The High-Rise of the New World car wash Van Gogh the railroad yard the girls at the green hotel in other words Destroying Beauty peace afternoons into night we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain marina: Trollius and trellises beagle coffee and babies magical mystery tour the last generation a radio with guts the egg a killer gets ready in the center of the action poetry notes upon the flaxen aspect: the fisherman the 1930s the burning of the dream sit and endure Goldfish finish dreaming my special craving A Love Poem one writer’s funeral the wine of forever the pile-up close encounters of another kind drying out scene from 1940: the area of pause I know you relentless as the tarantula the replacements to lean back into it eating my senior citizen’s dinner at the Sizzler it’s strange The Beast woman on the street lost in San Pedro Manx the history of a tough motherfucker bad fix one for the old boy my cats Death Wants More Death the lisp on being 20 meanwhile the world’s greatest loser the trash men a gold pocket watch talking to my mailbox … I liked him one for the shoeshine man the proud thin dying shot of red-eye about pain hot who in the hell is Tom Jones? the price I’m in love the girls the ladies of summer tonight shoes hug the dark face of a political candidate on a street billboard white dog on going out to get the mail spring swan how is your heart? closing time racetrack parking lot at the end of the day there Dinosauria, we mind and heart TB the orderly the nurses cancer tired in the afterdusk again so now? blue sun coming down twilight musings the bluebird if we take
alphabetical index of poem titles About the Author Also by Copyright
the mockingbird
the mockingbird had been following the cat all summer mocking mocking mocking teasing and cocksure; the cat crawled under rockers on porches tail flashing and said something angry to the mockingbird which I didn’t understand.
yesterday the cat walked calmly up the driveway with the mockingbird alive in its mouth, wings fanned, beautiful wings fanned and flopping, feathers parted like a woman’s legs, and the bird was no longer mocking, it was asking, it was praying but the cat striding down through centuries would not listen.
I saw it crawl under a yellow car with the bird to bargain it to another place.
summer was over.
his wife, the painter
There are sketches on the walls of men and women and ducks, and outside a large green bus swerves through traffic like insanity sprung from a waving line; Turgenev, Turgenev, says the radio, and Jane Austen, Jane Austen, too.
“I am going to do her portrait on the 28th, while you are at work.”
He is just this edge of fat and he walks constantly, he fritters; they have him; they are eating him hollow like a webbed fly, and his eyes are red-suckled with anger-fear.
He feels the hatred and discard of the world, sharper than his razor, and his gut-feel hangs like a wet polyp; and he self-decisions himself defeated trying to shake his hung beard from razor in water (like life), not warm enough.
Daumier. Rue Transnonain, le 15 Avril, 1843. (Lithograph.) Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale.
“She has a face unlike that of any woman I have ever known.”
“What is it? A love affair?”
“Silly. I can’t love a woman. Besides, she’s pregnant.”
I can paint—a flower eaten by a snake; that sunlight is a lie; and that markets smell of shoes and naked boys clothed, and under everything some river, some beat, some twist that clambers along the edge of my temple and bites nip-dizzy … men drive cars and paint their houses, but they are mad; men sit in barber chairs; buy hats.
Corot. Recollection of Mortefontaine. Paris, Louvre
“I must write Kaiser, though I think he’s a homosexual.”
“Are you still reading Freud?”
“Page 299.”
She made a little hat and he fastened two snaps under one arm, reaching up from the bed like a long feeler from the snail, and she went to church, and he thought now I h’ve time and the dog.
About church: the trouble with a mask is it never changes.
So rude the flowers that grow and do not grow beautiful. So magic the chair on the patio that does not hold legs and belly and arm and neck and mouth that bites into the wind like the end of a tunnel.
He turned in bed and thought: I am searching for some segment in the air. It floats about the people’s heads. When it rains on the trees it sits between the branches warmer and more blood-real than the dove.
Orozco. Christ Destroying the Cross. Hanover, Dartmouth College, Baker Library.
He burned away in sleep.
on the sidewalk and in the sun
I have seen an old man around town recently carrying an enormous pack. he uses a walking stick and moves up and down the streets with this pack strapped to his back.
I keep seeing him.
if he’d only throw that pack away, I think, he’d have a chance, not much of a chance but a chance.
and he’s in a tough district—east Hollywood. they aren’t going to give him a dry bone in east Hollywood.
he is lost. with that pack. on the sidewalk and in the sun.
god almighty, old man, I think, throw away that pack.
then I drive on, thinking of my own problems.
the last time I saw him he was not walking. it was ten thirty a.m. on north Bronson and hot, very hot, and he sat on a little ledge, bent, the pack still strapped to his back.
I slowed down to look at his face. I had seen one or two other men in my life with looks on their faces like that.
I speeded up and turned on the radio.
I knew that look.
I would never see him again.
the elephants of Vietnam
first they used to, he told me, gun and bomb the elephants, you could hear their screams over all the other sounds; but you flew high to bomb the people, you never saw it, just a little flash from way up but with the elephants you could watch it happen and hear how they screamed; I’d tell my buddies, listen, you guys stop that, but they just laughed as the elephants scattered throwing up their trunks (if they weren’t blown off) opening their mouths wide and kicking their dumb clumsy legs as blood ran out of big holes in their bellies.
then we’d fly back, mission completed. we’d get everything: convoys, dumps, bridges, people, elephants and all the rest.
he told me later, I felt bad about the elephants.
dark night poem
they say that nothing is wasted: either that or it all is.
the last days of the suicide kid
I can see myself now after all these suicide days and nights, being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes (of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky) by a subnormal and bored nurse … there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair … almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull looking for the mercy of death …
“Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?” “O, yeah, yeah …” the children walk past and I

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