Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
Rhythm must have meaning.
In this world We walk on the roof of hell Gazing at flowers
Our love was born outside the walls, in the wind, in the night, in the earth, and that's why the clay and the flower, the mud and the roots know your name.
I know the place I know the place. It is true. Everything we do Corrects the space Between death and me And you.
Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.
It is at the edge of the petal that love waits
No drowning man can know which drop Of water his last breath did stop
sometimes when everything seems at its worst when all conspires and gnaws and the hours, days, weeks years seem wasted – stretched there upon my bed in the dark looking upward at the ceiling i get what many will consider an obnoxious thought: it’s still nice to be Bukowski.
I had embraced you... long before i hugged you.
He woke her then, and trembling and obedient, she ate that burning heart out of his hand. Weeping, I saw him then depart from me. Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her? Find nourishment in the very sight of her? I think so. But would she see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?
Music, When Soft Voices Die Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted
Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
I could do with a bit more excess. From now on I'm going to be immoderate--and volatile--I shall enjoy loud music and lurid poetry. I shall be rampant.
Humanity i love you because you are perpetually putting the secret of life in your pants and forgetting it's there and sitting down on it and because you are forever making poems in the lap of death Humanity i hate you
The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.
I don't think all writers are sad, she said. I think it's the other way around— all sad people write.
