Charles Bukowski Poems on Death & Dying (21 Poems)

Crucifix In A Deathhand (Charles Bukowski Poems)

yes, they begin out in a willow, I think the starch mountains begin out in the willow and keep right on going without regard for pumas and nectarines somehow these mountains are like an old woman with a bad memory … Continue reading →

The Crunch (Charles Bukowski Poems)

too much too little too fattoo thinor nobody. laughter ortears haterslovers strangers with faces likethe backs ofthumb tacks armies running throughstreets of bloodwaving winebottlesbayoneting and fuckingvirgins. an old guy in a cheap roomwith a photograph of M. Monroe. there is … Continue reading →

The Japanese Wife (Charles Bukowski Poems)

O lord, he said, Japanese women, real women, they have not forgotten, bowing and smiling closing the wounds men have made; but American women will kill you like they tear a lampshade, American women care less than a dime, they’ve … Continue reading →

I like your books (Charles Bukowski Poems)

In the betting line the otherdayman behind me asked,“are you HenryChinaski?” “uh huh,” I answered. “I like your books,” he wenton. “thanks,” I answered. “who do you like in thisrace?” he asked. “uh uh,” I answered. “I like the 4 … Continue reading →

Hello, How Are You? (Charles Bukowski Poems)

this fear of being what they are:dead. at least they are not out on the street, theyare careful to stay indoors, thosepasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter. their ideal neighborhoodof parked … Continue reading →

For Jane: With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough: (Charles Bukowski Poems)

I pick up the skirt,I pick up the sparkling beads in black,this thing that moved oncearound flesh,and I call God a liar,I say anything that movedlike thator knewmy namecould never diein the common verity of dying,and I pick up her … Continue reading →

Young In New Orleans (Charles Bukowski Poem)

starving there, sitting around the bars, and at night walking the streets for hours, the moonlight always seemed fake to me, mabye it was, and in the French Quarter I watched the horses and buggies going by, everybody sitting high … Continue reading →