bukowski's


Jane


was


a


poet




living


it


but


not


writing


it


down








































words


strewn


around


the


room





scattered


across


the


floor





little


piles


of


heart


felt





i


dont


want


no


more





lost


unfinished


poems





willfully


destroyed


poems





just


too


fucking


personal


poems





full


of


pain


and


hope


poems





i


wont


keep


them


anymore








































sometimes


when


a


poem


comes




it


brings


butterflies








































words


strewn


around


the


floor





little


piles


of


heart


felt





lost


unfinished


poems





willfully


destroyed


poems





the


just


too


fucking


personal


poems





scatterings


of


love


hope


pain


and


fear





i


wont


pick


them


up








































sanctioned


by


infinity


our


love




given


as


a


gift


from


stars


above




no


storm


nor


interloper


will


provide





the


means


by


which


we


two


will


be


divide





though


cracks


appear


and


seem


to


drive


a


wedge




we're


used


to


that


we


live


right


on


the


edge








































she


stole


my


love


away


from


me


reaching


across


the


century




with


knowing


eyes


dark


as


a


storm


she


caused


a


rift


now


we


are


torn




a


sullen


brow


used


to


her


way


she


works


her


wiles


down


to


this


day





she


can


not


have


you


her


will


deny


for


you


were


meant


for


only


i








































my


inside


is


all


caving


in




outside


is


just


a


shell





my


head


is


pure


exploading


din





around


my


neck


a


bell








































now


my


love


is


looking


ragged





its


been


too


well


worn





left


in


the


rain




dragged


through


the


mud





no


wonder


its


all


torn








































they


are


your


loves




your


infinite


loves




those


first


fallen


into


young


loves




mine


comes


so


late




a


torn


old


love




dirt


real




but


still


star


kissed








































such


perfection




doomed




tis'


the


nature


of


it








































tedious


and


self


absorbed




thats


what


i've


become




sit


crying


in


my


rocking


chair




god!



sucking


on


my


thumb








































i


wish


i


could


just


grab


you




come


and


take


you


by


the


hand




run


off


to


a


beach


somewhere





trail


toes


through


pristine


sand





waves


the


only


sound


i


hear





filling


up


my


head





upon


days


end


the


perfect


close





sunset


beach


pillow


bed








































i've


always


known


love


was


only


on


loan




stolen





to


be


given


back







 OR







i've


always


known


your


love


was


on


loan




stolen





to


be


given


back








































we


don't


live


in


the


same


dimension





but


the


walls


are


transparent





sometimes


we


step


through








































we


two




stars


circulating





orbits


cross





to


touch


is


to


explode








































the


gods


gave


me


a


lover





an


answer


to


my


prayer





but


what


they


didn't


tell


me



was




his


heart


would


not


be


there





but


oh


hes


such


a


lover





there


is


none


to


compare





so


perfect


in


his


broken





almost


too


much


to


bear








































ears


cocked


he


listens


for


the


dirges


of


the


dead





feet


in


tune


with


their


dance





the


music


of


the


living


falls


on


deaf


ears





they


didn't


stand


a


chance








































so


much


easier


to


love


the


dead





no


effort


required





no


flaws


recriminations


or


needs


to


meet






just


a


love


so


perfectly


preserved





dessicated


in


death








































oh


sweet


death


please


take


me


now


for


my


lovers


in


love





with


the


dead








































may


a


layer


of


autumn


leaves


shower


down


on


me








































velvet


black


sucking


me


in








































i


might


be


wot


u


need





i'm


not


wot


u


prefer





the


irony





not


lost


on


me





is


leaving


me


interred








































weird how pain writes more poems than pleasure


well better ones


joy poems seem somehow to lack something


altho celebration of nature doesn't


love of trees etc frost...








































betrayal


might


be


cold


but


it


still


burns








































why


does


life


have


so


much


stuff





it


really


blows


my


mind





and


when


i


think


“ well


i'm


quite


tough ”





it


all


turns


most


unkind








































how


quickly


his


love


changed


with


one


fell


stroke





from


tender


blush


to


bitter


recrimination





does


he


forget


so


easily


his


own


cavalier


betrayals





and


scoffing


at


my


pain


while


laughter


echoed


in


his


wake








































the


growing


pains


of


love





once


so


young


and


shiney


bright





becomes


adult





disillusioned





then


shabby


crumbling


into


careless


old





betraying


näive


belief


once


held


that


it


could


never


age








































andrew writes:




in


love


i


may


have


wronged


but


i


have


also


been


wronged


it


leaves


an


indelible


impression






my reply :




crushed


love


never


quite


regains


its


memory


unlike


pressure


cooker


gaskets








































sex


is


never


simple


first


theres


pleasure


then


theres


payment





retribution








































the


power


in


a


babies


tears


drives


a


parent


to


their


knees








































andrew writes:





women


know


life


is


unfair


because


they


get


menopause







my reply :





women


know


life


is


unfair


because


they


bear


children








































i


have


lived


amongst


words





hidden


in


their


jungles





washed


up


on


their


beaches





found


refuge


on


their


islands





they


escape


me


now





and


spill


forth








































when


infinity


strikes





time


stands


still





there


are


no


sounds



sunbeams


dance





i


leave


myself


and


go


outside



to


liquid


notes


and


golden


showers








































i


want


to


give


you


my


illuminated


moments





hold


them


out


like


a


sheath


of


autumn


leaves





each


a


gift


in


jewel


like


colours





each


one


lasting


for


a


day
































in


death


i


am


earth


wet


brown


leaf


skeletons


meld


to


my


face
































eyes


closed





arms


outflung





breathing


deep





under


night


sky
































why


does


love


a


prison


make





no


bars


on


a


view





but


walls


of


steel
































a


man


might


 complain


he


does


all


the


work


 compared


to


her




he


 doesn't


see


all


the


work


she


puts


in


to


him
































watch


me


monster


walking


by




ponderous


slumberous


clumsy





but


see


me


from


the


corner


of


your


eye





tis


then


me


fairy


you'll


espy
































ugly


chunky


repulsive


poems





dissonant


sounding


tumble


from


my


brain







































words


plop


like


toads


onto


the


page





i


thought


they


were


winged




  why don't they fly
































is


there


any


house


of


cards


more


rickety


than


faith


in


human


integrity
































the


deepest


wounds


only


a


lover


can


inflict
































just


twelve


years


old


and


already


i


knew


i'd


lose


my


futile


bid


for


love
































i


wanted


to


write


you


a


love


poem




full


of


soaring


passionate


beautiful


phrases




but


words


fail


me




and


i


them




so


here


it


is

































when


a


woman


runs


out


on


a


man


in


tears


she


generally


wants


to


be


followed
































where


do


the


un


written


poems


go


do


they


gather


dust


or


just


decay






andrews reply :





where did they come  from ?
































i


will


never


sing




autumn


leaves




or


write




a


route


of


 evanescence
































andrew writes:




living


by


yourself


cooking


eating


cleaning


gardening


sleeping


working


money


computer


mowing


living


girlfriend


lover


your


brain


is


always


being


pulled


apart






my reply :





always


being


pulled


apart


my


brain


lover


children


housework


washing


money


working


sleeping


gardening


cleaning


eating


cooking


living


together

































life


can


be


like


a


trick


question

































parenthood


is


nothing


but


doubts

































the


human


female


does


not


see


beyond


the


glow


of


her


own


 happiness


like


cattle


feeding


on


clover


knowing


nothing


of


the


  slaughterhouse


she


cannot


see


the


 precipice


at


her


feet

































depression


arrives


and


takes


a


seat


in


the


room


a


cup


of


tea


cools


slowly


on


the


windowsill

































we


are


all


in


the


end


merely


meat

































its


only


the


beautiful


that


are


really


admired


for


what


they


achieve


plain


looking


is


often


passed


over





andrews reply :




some


fiction


of


beauty


just


my


shape


for


crucifixion

































female


love


is


a


voracious


creature


and


mere


male


is


but


a


morsel
































my


lovers


love


once


shiney


new


has


 tarnished


to


a


 different


hue
































some


times


i


want


to


chase


the


moon


right


across


the


sky

































looking


for


the


signs


ive


 reached


my


use


by


date





andrews reply :




even in death


  the crematorium has a use

































andrew writes:




until



we



both



wanted



out






it



could



not



end






could



it?






my reply :




i


ask


myself





imagine


scenes





death


is


the


only


consistancy

































cobweb


lace


curtains


swathe


shed


walls


dead


spiders


dangle


beads


on


the


fringe

































winter


sun


a


pinhole


in


the


sky

































andrew writes:




its


so


strange


to


find


yourself


strange


to


the


normal


world


and


the


normal


world


more truely


strange






my reply :




what


is


strange


and


what


is


normal


i


dont


know


is


that


strange


or


is


that


normal


i


dont


know


what


is


strange


and


what


is


normal


i


dont


know

































seemingly


ceaseless


autumn


rain




the


garden


awash


becomes


a


bog




bedraggled


birds


fluff


their


feathers




frogs


sing
































andrew writes:




summer


leaves




summer


sun




look


now




look again




they


have


passed






my reply :




autumn


leaves


drift


to


the


ground




a


pale


sun


rises




dew


drops


glisten


diamond


like




soon


a


winter


frost

































waves


of


affection


wash


over


me


im


drowning


in


my


love


you


are


an


island