Bukowski discussion

Bukowski's Semen and Other Fine Poems
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Bukowski's Semen

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Chris Volkay | 3 comments Hi. Wanted to post this poem I wrote about Buk. I love the guy but at times, he was just as deluded as the rest of us.

Warning-profane, offensive language ahead. If you don't like it, don't proceed.

BUKOWSKI’S SEMEN

Charles Bukowski’s face was used for Halloween Masks.
Brow and jaw line twisted like greasy axles in a high speed wreck.
Little people could ski on the peaks of his face.

His sex life was to say the least, wanting…
According to him, laid about twice, by a big fatso girl.
Twenty-three years old and only twice or so. The palms of his
hands took out restraining orders against him.

Then…BANG…he had success, this was published, that was.
Someone called him a genius and he never let the world
forget it. Before he spent two cents of his new found fortune, his
big purple onion is now being sucked ‘round the clock.

His semen was flying everywhere. Out the windows, through the ceiling,
low flying planes are issued an advisory when flying over his house.
Chains are needed to drive his streets. It’s rollin’ in from everywhere,
baby.

Twins, socialites, actresses-hookers-what‘s the difference? barmaids.
One night, somewhere, he fucks 6.
Then he’s out on a boat and he fucks the 3 broads on board.
He’s fucking on water, on land, in the streets. His semen has newfound
charm and allure. But it’s still being squirted from the same nuts, ain’t it?

Women, being what they are, are now on their hands and knees, taking it
everyway they can. Licking it up off the floor with tongue-strokes that leave behind
“Luv U” messages in the wet linoleum. His wretched cum is
being transformed into ambrosia with each cha-ching of the cash register.

The money, the success, the fame is the only love they understand. Hard green
and soft silver. Their eyes glint with its reflection. The smell of money sears into them.
The elixir, the potion, that turns this monster of bolts and rivets into
a matinee idol. Brad Pitt. Rudolph Valentino.

The parade of the refined and delicately hand-painted septic tanks,
coming in and out of Hank’s life, never stopped, as the money ebbed, flowed,
backed-up
and then was plumbed anew.

And from Hank’s writings, it seems clear that he actually believed in
love, ROMANTIC LOVE.

Poor bastard.


Ian (Steeze) | 4 comments Haha good poem!


David (1800DAVE) | 5 comments Love it.


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