Open All Night
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These 189 posthumously published new poems take us deeper into the raw, wild vein of Bukowski's that extends from the early 1980s up to the time of his death in 1994.
easy, it asks for nothing, asks for so little that it gives hope to all those who also ask for no chance, who ask for nothing at all, who just ask for someplace to sit quietly and wait for the slanting sun moving on the wall and for the peace of soft rain spread out all over the place. share the pain got pissed with my landlord and landlady because there was nothing else to do. you shouldn’t have all those whores and freaks hanging around your place, my landlady said.
to go down and for the sun to come up. or you find yourself in some little café up in the hills near the vineyards, sometime after one a.m. or two a.m. or three a.m. where you eat snails, sausages and asparagus for the price of a week’s income. the people with you seem pleased; but for you it’s not all that interesting or pleasant. because finally you’ll just shit it all out. one thing you learn, that you have to learn: you must stop thinking too much: all the boat rides down the
play on after the audience has left, it’s my turn to go now, all large growing fit to a thimble, down, down with them, with her, cities taken and buried this way, animals like mountains and mountains themselves, lightning and prayer and then the sea, snuffed out we are like nothing, like nothing we are and the pianist plays on as small devils slide down the balustrade, I am going down now through the green wave where no lightning can reach hold me air and water, hold me,
had just stopped raining. and Hollywood had a hell of a way to go before it would ever get there. fame some want it, I don’t want it, I want to do whatever it is I do and just do it. I don’t want to look into the adulating eye, shake the sweating palm. I think that whatever I do is my business. I do it because if I don’t I’m finished. I’m selfish: I do it for myself to save what is left of myself. and when I am approached as hero or half-god or guru I refuse to
with a two-day hangover; last night was the worst: white wine, red wine and tequila. I am out there because I have evolved an astonishing new theory on how to beat the horses. the money is secondary: it’s only used as a guide to keep me on the correct path. I won $302 the day before and I am $265 ahead going into the sixth. I am dizzy and I can barely function but the new theory (formula K) proves itself over and over: M plus S plus C plus O (each brought