#bukowski

91 posts
  • 3_am__ 9w

    The Difference, By Taste

    Ignorance is 
    'Not my style, shouldn't be a thing.'
    Maturity is
    'That's not my style, but that is style.'

    ©3_am__

  • pal_lavi 11w

    Conundrums

    And when there's no one coercing you to talk about your day, when you can just hit the sack without using your mouth for the sake of having a conversation, when you can be in your own space, your messy little room, with things that remind you of those bittersweet memories, when you can play the music of your choice without having to ask permission from others, when you don't have to speak to anyone about your sorrows or joys, what would you call it, freedom or loneliness?
    ©pallavi

  • tokingbetweenthelines 23w

    The parasite persists

    What meaning has my life?
    What power?
    What significance?
    What value, if any at all?
    What vain contentment
    allows me to draw breath
    and give nothing back?
    What have I been
    but a leech,
    sucking at the teat of
    the 21st century.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 23w

    Why do I write
    when everything I have to say
    has already been said
    so much better, so many times?
    Too much time alone
    is no good,
    no good for any man
    who's trying at the race,
    who's taking part in the performance.
    I thought I wrote poetry,
    but really, I just berate myself
    with written word
    and pin it up on the wall
    for you to swipe away;
    a strange, modern age
    social media sadomasochism
    that does nothing for me.
    I wanted my words to bring life
    into the ones I love,
    I couldn't bear to see them
    subjected to slow murder
    and accepting it as all there is.
    I wanted to show them art,
    I thought I could help;
    but I lack it.
    The resilience,
    the drive,
    the talent;
    whatever it is,
    I don't have it.
    I'm nothing at all.
    Just dried shit on
    the sole of your shoe.
    Scrape me off,
    I'm finished.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • tokingbetweenthelines 23w

    What's the point, then?

    I'll write every cell of me
    into these words,
    that shall be
    my life, my reason, my story;
    I'll puke into being
    these lines and verses
    of dull drivel
    for them to scratch their heads at.
    I'll confess every sin
    to them, to you,
    to anything that gives a fuck;
    and when they bury me,
    the words will be deleted
    and the books recycled
    and my headstone,
    in grey capital letters,
    will read-
    'HERE LIES
    ANOTHER MAD HIPPIE
    WHO BELIEVED
    HE WAS BUKOWSKI'
    and that's all
    I'll ever be.
    ©tokingbetweenthelines

  • kaach_ka_panchi 25w

    If the time machine evolves,
    I'll go back to the past to meet Bukowski.

    And I will tell him that I have not come to get an autograph.
    I'm from the future and I have come to share some cigarettes with you, drink some wine and talk about women.

    I want to know how you loved women and I will tell you about myself how I also loved a girl and how she dumped me.

    And maybe we can both laugh at the most complicated things we love and maybe you can tell me how to love a woman.

    ©Panchi
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    #mirakee #writers #poet #philosophy #longform #caption
    #writersnetwork #writerscommunity #poet #igpoet #mirakeeworld #bukowski #charlesbukowski #wordsgram #poetryporn #poemsporn #biography #timetravel #timemachine

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    When I met Bukowski

    ©kaach_ka_panchi

  • intiza 31w

    We don't think about the terror of one person, aching in one place alone, untouched, unspoken to, watering a plant, being without a telephone that will never ring bacause there isn't one.

  • sisya_frida 35w

    So You Want to Be A Writer

    if it doesn't come bursting out of you
    in spite of everything,
    don't do it.
    unless it comes unasked out of your
    heart and your mind and your mouth
    and your gut,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit for hours
    staring at your computer screen
    or hunched over your typewriter
    searching for words,
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it for money or fame,
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it because you want
    women in your bed,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit there and
    rewrite it again and again,
    don't do it.
    if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
    don't do it.
    if you're trying to write like somebody else,
    forget about it.
    if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
    then wait patiently.
    if it never does roar out of you,
    do something else.
    if you first have to read it to your wife
    or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
    or your parents or to anybody at all,
    you're not ready.
    don't be like so many writers,
    don't be like so many thousands of people
    who call themselves writers,
    don't be dull and boring and
    pretentious,
    don't be consumed with self-love.
    the libraries of the world
    have yawned themselves to sleep
    over your kind.
    don't add to that.
    don't do it.
    unless it comes out of
    your soul like a rocket,
    unless being still
    would drive you to madness or
    suicide or murder,
    don't do it.
    unless the sun inside you is
    burning your gut,
    don't do it.
    when it is truly time,
    and if you have been chosen,
    it will do it by itself
    and it will keep on doing it
    until you die or it dies in you.
    there is no other way.
    and there never was.


    -- Charles Bukowski

  • ihopeicouldhideforever 60w

    so you want to be a writer?

    if it doesn't come bursting out of you
    in spite of everything,
    don't do it.
    unless it comes unasked out of your
    heart and your mind and your mouth
    and your gut,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit for hours
    staring at your computer screen
    or hunched over your
    typewriter
    searching for words,
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it for money or
    fame,
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it because you want
    women in your bed,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit there and
    rewrite it again and again,
    don't do it.
    if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
    don't do it.
    if you're trying to write like somebody
    else,
    forget about it.

    if you have to wait for it to roar out of
    you,
    then wait patiently.
    if it never does roar out of you,
    do something else.

    if you first have to read it to your wife
    or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
    or your parents or to anybody at all,
    you're not ready.

    don't be like so many writers,
    don't be like so many thousands of
    people who call themselves writers,
    don't be dull and boring and
    pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
    love.
    the libraries of the world have
    yawned themselves to
    sleep
    over your kind.
    don't add to that.
    don't do it.
    unless it comes out of
    your soul like a rocket,
    unless being still would
    drive you to madness or
    suicide or murder,
    don't do it.
    unless the sun inside you is
    burning your gut,
    don't do it.

    when it is truly time,
    and if you have been chosen,
    it will do it by
    itself and it will keep on doing it
    until you die or it dies in you.

    there is no other way.

    and there never was.

    -Charles Bukowski
    1920-1994

  • aman_scribbles 63w

    PERFECT DISASTER

    Her love didn't unfold like
    they show in movies
    Or,
    describe in novels.

    romantic dates,
    flowers,cheesy talks,
    happy epilogues,
    Nothing like that.

    It was all about
    soaked eyes,
    bleeding hearts
    and
    3am whiskey.

    Atleast,
    it was poetic,
    more like an elegy.

    ©aman_scribbles

    #pod #darkpoetry #bukowski @writersnetwork @mirakee #writersnetwork

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    PERFECT DISASTER

    Her love didn't unfold like
    they show in movies
    Or,
    describe in novels.

    romantic dates,
    flowers,cheesy talks,
    happy epilogues,
    Nothing like that.

    It was all about
    soaked eyes,
    bleeding hearts
    and
    3am whiskey.

    Atleast,
    it was poetic,
    more like an elegy.

    ©aman_scribbles

  • nostringspoetry 83w

    Skins

    When you see me
    My soul, not my skin
    You'll feel my Glee
    But you won't see me grin.
    You won't see my thin bones
    Nor the brown of my eyes.
    I'd have shed the veil
    Along with all the lies.
    But you'll feel the intensity
    The calling of my soul.
    You'll see the true me
    And everything that makes me whole.

    Then perhaps you'll know my light was never dimmed
    It just hid beneath the barrier that you call my skin.
    ©nostringspoetry

  • nostringspoetry 84w

    A dream within a dream

    Of all the ghosts and demons that haunts them,
    Of all the angels and the tragedies they survived,
    You will always be my favourite,
    A loss so severe, I cried.

    Of all the loves I have ever loved,
    Of all the grief I have grieved,
    You were the cruelest of them all,
    Haunting me at midnight as I sleep.

    Of all the fairytales we learnt as kids,
    Of all the stories that left you empty
    You tossed me in Morpheus's arms
    And now I shall live out the life we promised
    In a dream.
    ©nostringspoetry

  • ink_and_solitude 102w

    Thanks Bukowski

    My housemate left for Kathmandu
    I was helping her pack yesterday
    And I realised how fucked up my life is
    Her mom had come
    Such a sweet lady
    Gave me an open invitation to visit
    I said yes, of course
    Had to say something positive
    Mine wouldn't let me out ever if she could
    The girl had a lot of stuff
    Expensive ones too
    Hefty allowances every month
    For me, I dread asking for more
    It's not Mom's fault, though
    Single parent, dealt enough with men's shit
    Working her ass off day and night
    Just enough money to survive the day
    Didn't recover much after Dad died
    And here I am blowing that shit up
    Bless this girl for having a better life
    It's Christmas today
    Everyone was going either home
    Or hopping cathedrals on lit up streets
    No one called me as usual
    Probably because my life's a mess
    Or I live with the lie that everyone likes me
    I don't even have a boyfriend to talk to
    And this girl landed an angel
    Her mom even approved
    I met him once, he's damn nice
    Mine would've hanged me for having one
    Some people have perfect lives
    I wonder what the hobos are doing
    Did the rich people give them sweaters?
    Or wished them Merry Christmas?
    Nah, they're dining at fancy joints
    Big words they talk about kindness
    Bukowski opens a fresh whiskey
    Nietzsche's talking to a horse
    Cobain's looking for a gun
    And I'm working
    There never was a sadder Christmas

    ©ink_and_solitude

  • ink_and_solitude 114w

    Danke Charles

    You think I'm crazy
    Well, shit, I think so too
    This damned world, you know
    This shit of a place
    Life everyday here
    Is like walking on high heels
    You know you can trip anytime
    And holy cow, did I trip a lot
    That's why I switched to flats
    But are you scared
    Of my imaginary place?
    Is that why you call me crazy?
    Yeah, because you know
    You're just a plain old person
    Who's a puppet of monotony
    Come on, if you're not a little crazy
    Then you're just boring
    And I don't do so well
    With boring people
    So I'll see you again
    When you're old and crippled
    And cribbing about how you never lived
    Oh and one more thing
    I'm going to go fight patriarchy
    Care to join me?

  • _iankitsingh___ 121w

    Whenever I try to write something different, something new, something fresh; I stop.
    I stop and think, and nothing comes to my mind, so I continue writing just waiting for the words to make sense, eventually.

    Then, something happens.

    I wait, I stop again.

    'Isn't that what I've been doing for the last 20 years, and I thought It meant something', I revel!

    Different, new, fresh; I was all that before.

    Not now.

    Again, I stop and wonder, 'what changed?'


    #mirakee #mirakeeapp #mirakeefamily #mirakeeans #different #new #fresh #change #20years #life #musing #Bukowski #TheBuk

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    Different New Fresh

    Whenever I try to write something different, something new, something fresh; I stop.
    I stop and think, and nothing comes to my mind, so I continue writing just waiting for the words to make sense, eventually.

    Then, something happens.

    I wait, I stop again.

    'Isn't that what I've been doing for the last 20 years, and I thought It meant something', I revel!

    Different, new, fresh; I was all that before.

    Not now.

    Again, I stop and wonder, 'what changed?'



    ©_iankitsingh___

  • notesfromabarnapkin 134w

    John and Jane

    John sits on his patio basking in the sun whilst Jane stands out front. She lights a cigarette from her hidden stash, though John knows that she smokes. They both wait for the cancer to rot her away. He because he loves her. The thought of her being alone is haunting. She because she hates him, the thought of them being together is even worse.

    John built their house with his own two hands, driven by love. Jane shudders at the though of spending one more night in the prison that was built around her. John and Janes friends, Mark and Susan, are coming round later. They are having trouble in their marriage and look to the two for guidance. All the couples do.

    Oh how I envy John. We all should. The only time Jane does not feel like Johns dagger is deep inside her is in their marital bed. Five minutes is all he needs, he finsihes before she begins. After he can play his video games, write his poems and read his books. Johns life is full of pleasure. Oh how I envy him, by God, do I envy him. After John has come, Jane can smile. For now she is free whilst her masters contet. Yet I wonder, who's really in control?

    Dear reader, should you find yourself forced to analyse these thoughts that rattle around by head like a paper bag in a hurricane, let me save you some time. You are John, or maybe you're Jane. I see them in every celebrity, civilan or politician. They're all fucking someone or getting fucked. Dying, wishing to die or hoping death comes to another.

    These words should not beg essays to be writen in exam halls, or spark debate or philisophical ponderings. They should only ask one question. Who are you? John? or Jane? Maybe you're both, but you can't be neither. You're not that special.
    ©notesfromabarnapkin

  • moody01 137w

    Alcohol fuels me !! #bukowski #Charlesbukowski

    Read More

    Buk !! Man !!
    This place is a shit hole but I guess we all are in one of our own.
    If only I had a friend like you
    to talk me out of it.
    No wonder why you kept drinking and drinking till it swallowed you whole !!
    - moody !!

  • network_section8 138w

    “Writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.”

    -
    Charles Bukowski


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  • _iankitsingh___ 148w

    You Are Here

    You
    Are
    Not
    Gone,
    You
    Are
    Here.

    You
    Are
    Distant,
    Your
    Memories
    Are
    Near.

    You
    Are
    Not
    Gone.

    You
    Are
    Really
    Here.



    ....




    ©_iankitsingh___

  • esoterikpen 149w

    The Laughing Heart

    your life is your life
    don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
    be on the watch.
    there are ways out.
    there is light somewhere.
    it may not be much light but
    it beats the darkness.
    be on the watch.
    the gods will offer you chances.
    know them.
    take them.
    you can’t beat death but
    you can beat death in life, sometimes.
    and the more often you learn to do it,
    the more light there will be.
    your life is your life.
    know it while you have it.
    you are marvelous
    the gods wait to delight
    in you.

    ~ by Charles Bukowski