Saturday, February 11, 2017
Charles Bukowski , Finish
"we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with waiting"
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with waiting"
finish
the hearse comes through the room filled with
the beheaded, the disappeared, the living
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky paste
their wings will not
lift.
I watch an old woman beat her cat
with a broom.
the weather is unendurable
a dirty trick by
God.
the water has evaporated from the
toilet bowl
the telephone rings without
sound
the small limp arm petering against the
bell.
I see a boy on his
bicycle
the spokes collapse
the tires turn into
snakes and melt
away.
the newspaper is oven—hot
men murder each other in the streets
without reason.
the worst men have the best jobs
the best men have the worst jobs or are
unemployed or locked in
madhouses.
I have 4 cans of food left.
air-conditioned troops go from house to
house
from room to room
jailing, shooting, bayoneting
the people.
we have done this to ourselves, we
deserve this
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.
I go out on the back porch
and look across the sea of dead plants
now thorns and sticks shivering in a
windless sky.
somehow I’m glad we’re through
finished—
the works of Art
the wars
the decayed loves
the way we lived each day.
when the troops come up here
I don’t care what they do for
we already killed ourselves
each day we got out of bed.
I go back into the kitchen
spill some hash from a soft
can, almost cooked
already
and I sit
eating, looking at my
fingernails.
the sweat comes from behind my
ears and I hear the
shooting in the streets and
I chew and wait
without wonder.
the beheaded, the disappeared, the living
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky paste
their wings will not
lift.
I watch an old woman beat her cat
with a broom.
the weather is unendurable
a dirty trick by
God.
the water has evaporated from the
toilet bowl
the telephone rings without
sound
the small limp arm petering against the
bell.
I see a boy on his
bicycle
the spokes collapse
the tires turn into
snakes and melt
away.
the newspaper is oven—hot
men murder each other in the streets
without reason.
the worst men have the best jobs
the best men have the worst jobs or are
unemployed or locked in
madhouses.
I have 4 cans of food left.
air-conditioned troops go from house to
house
from room to room
jailing, shooting, bayoneting
the people.
we have done this to ourselves, we
deserve this
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.
I go out on the back porch
and look across the sea of dead plants
now thorns and sticks shivering in a
windless sky.
somehow I’m glad we’re through
finished—
the works of Art
the wars
the decayed loves
the way we lived each day.
when the troops come up here
I don’t care what they do for
we already killed ourselves
each day we got out of bed.
I go back into the kitchen
spill some hash from a soft
can, almost cooked
already
and I sit
eating, looking at my
fingernails.
the sweat comes from behind my
ears and I hear the
shooting in the streets and
I chew and wait
without wonder.
A Message to Young People, Andrei Tarkovsky
"I don’t know… I think I’d like to say only that they should learn to be alone and try to spend as much time as possible by themselves. I think one of the faults of young people today is that they try to come together around events that are noisy, almost aggressive at times. This desire to be together in order to not feel alone is an unfortunate symptom, in my opinion. Every person needs to learn from childhood how to spend time with oneself. That doesn’t mean he should be lonely, but that he shouldn’t grow bored with himself because people who grow bored in their own company seem to me in danger, from a self-esteem point of view."
an old man
i am here, an old man,
see drops of water
hanging from bald twigs
shimmer in the sun.
this sun changed my day,
made snow transparent
and liquid, transformed
weather and mind.
still i like to nag,
it is a privilege when
the veins and arteries
fill with clots of chalk.
i cannot change
the course of stars
and the fate of men.
where once all roads
were open and wide,
i have to listen to
the wind on my cheeks,
feel if a door is open.
and maybe i prefer
to sit, so many paths
leading to nowhere
but to meet myself.
soon i shall travel,
not yet into this sky,
but to uncertain shores
floating in another light.
when the rose will
not flower and arms
will not hold me warm,
i will keep to myself,
shall walk the streets,
the gardens and fill
with music and sound,
opening to my dying,
closing to words
coming through fibres
and long long tunnels
keeping me caged.
i will open to life,
will only listen to
the waves coming in
and going out to sea
deafening desire, tides
translating the deep,
me a speck on earth,
dancing within.
i dream, still wish
not without, not without you,
but how do i read
what i cannot see.
buried in its shadow
the soul cannot fly
without me who flows
through borders of skin
to touch the invisible.
walking the ground
i find it hard to smile
all on my own.
see drops of water
hanging from bald twigs
shimmer in the sun.
this sun changed my day,
made snow transparent
and liquid, transformed
weather and mind.
still i like to nag,
it is a privilege when
the veins and arteries
fill with clots of chalk.
i cannot change
the course of stars
and the fate of men.
where once all roads
were open and wide,
i have to listen to
the wind on my cheeks,
feel if a door is open.
and maybe i prefer
to sit, so many paths
leading to nowhere
but to meet myself.
soon i shall travel,
not yet into this sky,
but to uncertain shores
floating in another light.
when the rose will
not flower and arms
will not hold me warm,
i will keep to myself,
shall walk the streets,
the gardens and fill
with music and sound,
opening to my dying,
closing to words
coming through fibres
and long long tunnels
keeping me caged.
i will open to life,
will only listen to
the waves coming in
and going out to sea
deafening desire, tides
translating the deep,
me a speck on earth,
dancing within.
i dream, still wish
not without, not without you,
but how do i read
what i cannot see.
buried in its shadow
the soul cannot fly
without me who flows
through borders of skin
to touch the invisible.
walking the ground
i find it hard to smile
all on my own.
Song of Two Worlds, Alan Lightman, quotes
"I knock on the door of the universe.
Here, this small villa, this table, this pen.
I ask the universe: What? and Why?
Now weakened, I must remake the world,
One grain at a time."
Here, this small villa, this table, this pen.
I ask the universe: What? and Why?
Now weakened, I must remake the world,
One grain at a time."
.........
"So much I’ve lost,
I have nothing
Except a fierce hunger
To fathom this world.
Naked, I knock on the door,
Wearing only my questions"
I have nothing
Except a fierce hunger
To fathom this world.
Naked, I knock on the door,
Wearing only my questions"
.........
"For how can I measure
The stroke of a passion? Or dissect a grief
With the digits of pi?
The stroke of a passion? Or dissect a grief
With the digits of pi?
Thus, I stand naked, with nothing
Except a fierce hunger to fathom this world,
To embark on this road
Without length without breadth."
Except a fierce hunger to fathom this world,
To embark on this road
Without length without breadth."
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