I could scream down 90 mountains

to less than dust

if only one living human had eyes in the head

and heart in the body,

but there is no chance my god,

no chance.

rat with rat dog with dog hog with hog,

play the piano drunk

listen to the drunk piano,

realize the myth of mercy

stand still

as even a child’s voice snarls

and we have not been fooled,

it was only that we wanted to believe.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

Poem by Charles Bukowski via Plagarist.com. Photo credit: Tim Todd.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

Photo credit: Tim Todd. Poem by Charles Bukowski via Plagarist.com.

If you know me, or have ever read my novel, you know how I feel about Bukowski.

His work was as much a character in Rorschach’s Ribs as Escher Smallwater or Phil Callaway.

Today, moreso than most, has felt like the embodiment of one of his greatest poems, the Shoelace.

So, in honor of my slow ride to the madhouse, let the moving words move you.

Video by some guy named Jason (http://www.youtube.com/user/myspace.com/blackholestudios)

And here’s the original poem, in case you’ve never read it:

The Shoelace

a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard…
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left …
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
licence plates or taxes
or expired driver’s license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s
crazy.
lightswitch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill’s up and the, market’s
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it’s
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they’re
your friends;
there’s always that and worse;
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady’s purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and china and russia and america, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

A LOUD SCREAM FROM SKID ROW

Doug Stanhope is America’s greatest export. If you like Lenny Bruce, Sam Kinnison, Bill Hicks or Richard Pryor then make sure you track down some of Dougie’s shows online. He reckons he will offend every person in the audience during his shows. I have his DVD Deadbeat Hero – he is so funny I can’t even bring myself to watch it again. It’s just too good.

I hate when your friends quit drinking on you, don’t you? It’s sad. I’ve lost more friends to AA than Liberace did to the virus. It’s sad to see ‘em go. You see a thirty day chip on your buddy’s key ring, it’s like seeing a toe tag on his cold, stiff corpse.

He’s a filthy, pissed up, irate drug taking misogynist and I absolutely love him. My sister went to see him live last year. Her friend Flangela Lashes (Manchester’s premier drag queen) went along. The two of them are pretty ‘controversial’. They’ll appreciate me saying that as they laugh at everything you’re not supposed to laugh about. The two of them are a force to contend with. They reckoned that Doug had them crying all night. He went on stage and exploded. Apparently it was one of the darkest comedy routines they have ever seen and a work of absolute genius.

Doug is at his finest when talking about Americans. He seems to capture the shitness of every day life. He’s like Bukowski on crack. More extreme than Hicks though. The American right wing absolutely HATE him. He is way too edgy for national broadcast – if you want to track him down I suggest you try and go to see him live or invest in his latest MP3 From Across The Street.

Or check out his website here.   

Bukowski has a talent for writing letters. The best opening line: “Verification of existence substantiated”. I wish those words were mine, they’re good enough to steal. Slept the day away yesterday, I can’t make up my mind about which course of action to take. There are too many possibilities and none of them certain. If only someone could make the choice for me. Not that I would trust anyone to make the choice for me. 

-

Una pequeña bomba atómica

-

oh, dame una pequeña bomba

no muy grande

sólo un poco

suficiente para matar un caballo en la calle

pero no hay caballos en la calle

bien, suficiente para derribar las flores de una maceta

pero no veo

flores en ninguna maceta

suficiente entonces

para atemorizar a mi amor

pero no poseo ningún

amor

bien

dame una bomba atómica entonces

para restregar mi bañera

como un sucio y adorable niño

(tengo una bañera)

sólo una pequeña bomba atómica, general,

con nariz de dogo

orejas rosadas

oliendo como a calzoncillos en

julio

¿crees que estoy loco?

creo que estás loco

también

así que:

dame una antes de que otro

lo haga.

-

Litle atomic bomb

-

oh, just give me a little atomic bomb

not too much

just a little

enough to kill a horse in the street

but there aren’t any horses in the street

well, enough to knock the flowers from a bowl

but I don’t see any

flowers in a

bowl

enough then

to frighten my love

but I don’t have any

love

well

give me an atomic bomb then

to scrub in my bathtub

like a dirty and lovable child

(I’ve got a bathtub)

just a little atomic bomb, general,

with pugnose

pink ears

smelling like underclothes in

July

do you think I’m crazy?

I think you’re crazy

too

so the way I think:

send me one before somebody else

does.

-

Charles Bukowski

Una pequeña bomba atómica

Traducción de Eduardo Espinoza Lecca y María García

-

“Un intelectual es el que explica algo simple de forma difícil y complicada. Un artista es el que explica algo complicado y difícil de forma simple”.
(Charles Bukowski)

.

dos moscas

-

las moscas son furiosos pedacitos de

vida;

¿por qué están tan furiosas?

parece que quisieran más,

parece casi como si estuvieran furiosas

por ser moscas;

no es mi culpa;

me siento en la habitación

con ellas

y me joden con su agonía;

es como si fueran pedazos de alma

abandonados en algún lugar;

intento leer un diario

pero no piensan dejarme en paz;

una parece subir en semicírculos

por la pared,

emitiendo un miserable sonido

sobre mi cabeza;

la otra, la más pequeña,

se queda cerca y me molesta en la mano,

sin decir nada,

elevándose, cayendo,

volviendo a trepar;

¿qué Dios puso estas

extraviadas cosas sobre mí?

otros hombres sufren dictaduras,

amores trágicos…

yo sufro insectos…

espanto a la más pequeña

y eso sólo le hace revivir

su impulso desafiante:

da vueltas más rápido,

más cerca, incluso hace

un sonido de mosca,

y la otra arriba

intenta un nuevo vuelo

excitada, también,

se apura,

cae de repente

en un golpe de ruido

y se juntan

dando vueltas en mi mano, rozando la base

del portalámparas

hasta que alguna cosa humana en mí

no aguanta más sacrilegio

y empiezo a golpear

con el diario enrollado

―¡fallé!―

golpeo,

golpeo,

se interrumpe la armonía,

algún mensaje se perdió entre ellas,

agarro a la más grande primero,

cae de espaldas

agitando las patitas

como una puta furiosa,

y le pego de nuevo

con mi palo de papel

y se convierte en una fea

mancha de mosca;

la pequeña vuela más alto

ahora, tranquila y rápida,

casi invisible;

ya no se acerca a mi mano;

está mansa e inaccesible;

la dejo en paz, me deja

en paz;

el diario, por supuesto,

está arruinado;

algo pasó,

algo empañó mi día,

a veces no hace falta

un hombre o una mujer,

solamente algo vivo;

me siento y miro a

la mosca pequeña;

estamos juntos trenzados

en el aire

y la vida;

y ya es tarde

para nosotros dos.

-

-

Two flies

-

The flies are angry bits of

life;

why are they so angry?

it seems they want more,

it seems almost as if they

are angry

that they are flies;

it is not my fault;

I sit in the room

with them

and they taunt me

with their agony;

it is as if they were

loose chunks of soul

left out of somewhere;

I try to read a paper

but they will not let me

be;

one seems to go in half-circles

high along the wall,

throwing a miserable sound

upon my head;

the other one, the smaller one

stays near and teases my hand,

saying nothing,

rising, dropping

crawling near;

what god puts these

lost things upon me?

other men suffer dictates of

empire, tragic love…

I suffer

insects…

I wave at the little one

which only seems to revive

his impulse to challenge:

he circles swifter,

nearer, even making

a fly-sound,

and one above

catching a sense of the new

whirling, he too, in excitement,

speeds his flight,

drops down suddenly

in a cuff of noise

and they join

in circling my hand,

strumming the base

of the lampshade

until some man-thing

in me

will take no more

unholiness

and I strike

with the rolled-up paper –

missing! –

striking,

striking,

they break in discord,

some message lost between them,

and I get the big one

first, and he kicks on his back

flicking his legs

like an angry whore,

and I come down again

with my paper club

and he is a smear

of fly-ugliness;

the little one circles high

now, quiet and swift,

almost invisible;

he does not come near

my hand again;

he is tamed and

inaccessible; I leave

him be, he leaves me be;

the paper, of course,

is ruined;

something has happened,

something has soiled my

day,

something it does not

take a man

or a woman,

only something alive;

I sit and watch

the small one;

we are woven together

in the air

and the living;

it is late

for both of us.

-

-
Charles Bukowski
Dos moscas
Traducción de Eduardo Espinoza Lecca y María García
-

Devia ser o 35 ou 40 copo de cerveja, mas por alguma razão, ela ainda não estava bêbada. Ela já estava acostumada. Falava besteira, mas não estava bêbada, apenas alegre.
Queria ficar. Queria vomitar

- Garçom, uma pinga, ou melhor, duas. E rápido.

Ela virou, igual a homem. Ela sempre bebe igual a homem.
Levantou da mesa, tonta, quase caindo. Foi ao banheiro, vomitou e voltou como se nada tivesse acontecido.

Acendeu um Derby. Encheu mais um copo de cerveja e virou.

- Garçom, me vê mais uma.

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn’t particularly want money. I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appal me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children. To get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4^th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day… was a man born just to endure these things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

– Bukowski

I’m bleeding all over the bandage box.

There’s blood on a 20 bucks.

The cashier flinched some as she clenched fresh mushrooms

All right, I was re-shopping at 3 in the night.

If you ask, I was too clearly too early after waking to take up the task

Of red sauce for 20, and due to new knives

Just sharpened that morning

I sliced a thumb along with a nice onion  then

I  compromised , handily,  red sauce for 20 family

With my own red sauce, now burning

W/dangerous genes to scald a newborn or

 Imaginably an  std that they

or even me would never dream of,

(One of the wages of  a dream love)

So I ditched  that batch.

Shoot,  it’s surely less polluted 

Than the bloody mix up merlin

Stirring on his convoluted Special,

Spilling in too much as usual.

Vou iniciar com um pequeno conto. Acordei inspirada para escrever.

Depois de algumas cervejas no Coxixo, decido pedir uma coxinha, ou melhor, duas. Coxinha do coxixo, uma iguaria gastronômica dos butecos.
Enquanto espero ansiosamente pelas coxinhas, bebo mais algumas cervejas, converso sobre Bukowski e seco – discaradamente – as pernas da mulher ao lado. Coxas duras, grossas e definidas.
Enfim, as coxinhas. Elas esfriam rápido, para isso não acontecer, como depressa.
Termino, arroto. Ainda sinto fome. Viro meu copo de cerveja e caminho em direção a mesa ao lado

- Gata, comi duas coxinhas e ainda sinto fome. Posso te comer?

FIM

Não existe segunda parte.
Não gosto de terminar as coisas.
E muito menos que as coisas façam sentido, não é para ter sentido. Essa é intenção.

Yalnız kalmaktan daha kötü şeyler de vardır hayatta ama genellikle, bir ömür alır bunun farkına varmak; o zaman da çok geçtir. Ve çok geçten daha kötü bir şey yoktur hayatta.

Bukowski

Minhas incursões sobre Charles Bukowski (opa!) estão dando bons frutos. Recebi agora uma excelente indicação bibliográfica: o “Guia de Drinques dos Grandes Escritores Americanos”, publicada pela Jorge Zahar. Link

Segundo Cecília, da Edelman/Zahar, o drinque favorito do velho Buk era o Spoilermaker, preparado com whisky e cerveja e, segundo ele, ideal para ficar bêbado depressa. Isso merece um teste empírico, com urgência

Il y a assez de traîtrise, de haine, de violence,
D’absurdité dans l’être humain moyen
Pour approvisionner à tout moment n’importe quelle armée
Et les plus doués pour le meurtre sont ceux qui prêchent contre
Et les plus doués pour la haine sont ceux qui prêchent l’amour
Et les plus doués pour la guerre – finalement – sont ceux qui prêchent la paix

Méfiez-vous
De l’homme moyen
De la femme moyenne
Méfiez-vous de leur amour

Leur amour est moyen, recherche la médiocrité
Mais il y a du génie dans leur haine
Il y a assez de génie dans leur haine pour vous tuer, pour tuer n’importe qui

Ne voulant pas de la solitude
Ne comprenant pas la solitude
Ils essaient de détruire
Tout
Ce qui diffère
D’eux

Etant incapables
De créer de l’art
Ils ne comprennent pas l’art

Ils ne voient dans leur échec
En tant que créateurs
Qu’un échec
Du monde

Etant incapables d’aimer pleinement
Ils croient votre amour
Incomplet
Du coup, ils vous détestent

Et leur haine est parfaite
Comme un diamant qui brille
Comme un couteau
Comme une montagne
Comme un tigre
Comme la ciguë
Leur plus grand art.

***

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)