letusbeoffensive:

the short poem
like the short life
may not be the best thing
but generally
it’s
easier.

this is a short poem
at the end
of a
long
life

sitting here
looking at
you
now

then
saying
adios!

- Charles Bukowski.

littlebeard:

charles bukowski painted with wine by marcelo daldoce. amazing. WITH WINE!

humancomputer:

if you have ever drawn up your last plan on
and old shirt cardboard in an Eastside hotel room of winter
with last week’s rent due and a dead radiator
you’ll know how large small things are
like yourself coming up the stairway
Maybe for the final time
with your bottle of wine
thinking of the lady in #9
putting on her garters
and on her dresser there is a
dark red drinking glass
which catches the overhead light like a
soft dream of Jerusalem
and she dusts herself
slips into silk and sheath and
spiked feet
and unemployed and looking for work
and maybe looking for you
she passes you on the
stairway;
such disturbing grace
transforms one.
like a blue-winged fly exploding into
the summer sky
you decide to hang around and 
die later; you enter your room and pour wine like
blood, inward, and decide in the morning you’ll
get up early and
read the want
ads.

scaeriel:

it’s the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here’s a cock
and here’s a cunt
and here’s trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I’ve learned:
I’ll let her do that
and I’ll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some sex
and only a minor
love.

now I’m waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.