Love is a Dog From Hell: Poems, 1974-1977
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Poems rising from and returning to Bukowski's personal experiences reflect people, objects, places, and events of the external world, and reflects on them, on their way out and back.
"Love is a Dog From Hell captures Bukowski's considerable talent for capturing a mood and throwing the reader into his world. This is an excellent edition of modern poetry that perfectly captures the degenerated angst of the period. What is particularly striking here is Bukowski's acute awareness of the decay that surrounds him."
"Take off the rose-colored glasses...return your seats to their upright position...place your head between your knees and prepare for a crash landing. Don't get me wrong: this book is not a diatribe condemning love. We've all read and loved our Byron, but now it's time to step through the looking glass, children. Love may "walk in beauty like the night" but, "Love, Bukowski Style"...asks you to remember that "the night" isn't the best venue for clarity of vision. Bukowski speaks to that other side of love...vitriolic, soul-destroying, perverted, barbaric and insane. All, who have ever loved, will find the words for their feelings...the feelings for their lack of words... in Bukowski's auto-Eros-dissection. Why would I suggest you read this volume of poetry? Why would anyone want to subject themself to such unpleasantries? What kind of sadist am I, that I would ask you to deliberately subject yourself to the pain of love? To know love, is to know the pain of love. Yet for all the pain inherent in love, we seek love again and again. Nothing exercises our gifts of hope and faith more strenuously. Love may be a "dog from hell" to Bukowski, but he is still unable to disguise his want, his need and his hope for more love. Bukowski - alcoholic, misanthrope, barbarian, gutter rat - who writes of love and can still say..."It softens a man."
to shoot white hot juice into you. I didn’t fly all the way to Galveston to play chess.” later we lay locked like human vines my left arm under her pillow my right arm over her side I grip both of her hands, and my chest belly balls cock tangle into her and through us in the dark pass rays back and forth back and forth until I fall away and we sleep. she’s wild but kind my 6 foot goddess makes me laugh the laughter of the mutilated who still need love, and her
we went on a picnic together up in the hills and we played cards and drank beer and ate potato salad they treated her as if she were a living person at last everybody laughed I didn’t laugh. later at my place over the whiskey I said to her, I don’t like them but it’s good they treated you nice. you damn fool, she said, don’t you see? see what? they kept looking at my beer-belly, they think I’m pregnant. oh, I said, well here’s to our beautiful child.
child and a mannequin and death. I can’t hate that. she didn’t do anything unusual. I only wanted her to. tonight “your poems about the girls will still be around 50 years from now when the girls are gone,” my editor phones me. dear editor: the girls appear to be gone already. I know what you mean but give me one truly alive woman tonight walking across the floor toward me and you can have all the poems the good ones the bad ones or
or maybe a slice of ear in memory of one who could. my old man 16 years old during the depression I’d come home drunk and all my clothing— shorts, shirts, stockings— suitcase, and pages of short stories would be thrown out on the front lawn and about the street. my mother would be waiting behind a tree: “Henry, Henry, don’t go in…he’ll kill you, he’s read your stories…” “I can whip his ass…” “Henry, please take this…and find yourself a room.” but
belly of me feel her and the other part too, and all of Los Angeles falls down and weeps for joy, the walls of the love parlors shake— the ocean rushes in and she turns to me and says, “damn this hair!” and I say, “yes.” the spider then there was the time in New Orleans I was living with a fat woman, Marie, in the French Quarter and I got very sick. while she was at work I got down on my knees in the kitchen that afternoon and prayed. I was not a religious man but it