Hvis jeg var sjiraff, ville jeg elske deg i taushet og stirre ned på deg med en heiskrans melankoli, elske deg på den klossete måten som er så karakteristisk for alle høye skapninger, gomlende som tyggegummi på et tankefullt blad, sjalu på bjørnene, maurslukerne, nebbdyrene, kakaduene og krokodillene, og møysommelig bøye halsen ved hjelp av senenes trinser og bore hodet mot brystet ditt i skjelvende ømhet.

er snø
et spøkelse revet i filler

Men hva har du
bak ribbeina
som er så jævlig
viktig
at det eneste
av meg
som får plass
i deg
er denne lille
tisseluren?

Men først må du klatre
opp eifeltårntrappa
mi.
Vi
ses.

Hjertet mitt
i ei skuff
lik en ilanddrevet
hval.

we have done this to ourselves, we
deserve this
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.

I want to write
ENOUGH POEMS
so that when I die
all the shit will be out of me, I mean the guff, the nonsense,
the turds yes, ah I mean —that I have expressed enough
ENOUGH you see to
free me.

life on paper is so much more
pleasurable:
there are no bombs or flies or
landlords or starving
cats,

ice for the eagles

I keep remembering the horses
under the moon
I keep remembering feeding the horses
sugar
white oblongs of sugar
more like ice,
and they had heads like
eagles
bald heads that could bite and
did not.

The horses were more real than
my father
more real than God
and they could have stepped on my
feet but they didn't
they could have done all kinds of horrors
but they didn't.

I was almost 5
but I have not forgotten yet;
o my god they were strong and good
those red tongues slobbering
out of their souls.

«Når du trekker sverdet, tenk ikke på hvem du skal drepe, men tenk på hvem du skal skåne,»

Og redselen og pinen ga seg et øyeblikk, liksom bølgen trekker seg seg fort tilbake for så å kaste seg mot klippene igjen - han visste at det ville komme igjen.

Og denne beslutningen hang som et tungt smykke mellom brystene hennes, den var skrevet med ildskrift på den mørke himmelen i hennes sinn.

Et eller annet sted, inne i denne voldsomme hvirvelvinden, i hjertets mørke, i denne stormen - var det noe - noe han måtte finne. Be kunne han ikke. Hans sinn var som selve havet: urolig, for dypt til at selv den modigste kunne dykke ned i det, mens det alt i ett, til undring for det nakne øyet, kastet opp på stranden skatter og vrakrester som i lange tider hadde ligget glemt på bunnen - knokler og juveler, fantastiske skjell, bløte, skjelvende klumper som en gang hadde vært åpne øyne. Og han var i dette havets vold, omgitt på alle kanter av dette havs mørke.

jeg står på trappa og fyller munnen med sol
går inn til deg og gaper

here I'm supposed to be a great poet
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon
here I am aware of death like a giant bull
charging at me
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon
here I'm aware of wars and men fighting in the ring
and I'm aware of good food and wine and good women
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon
I'm aware of a woman's love
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon,
I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain
I wonder where the summer flies have gone
I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway and
I'm sleepy in the afternoon.

some day I won't be sleepy in the afternoon
some day I'll write a poem that will bring volcanoes
to the hills out there
but right now I'm sleepy in the afternoon
and somebody asks me, "Bukowski, what time is it?"
and I say, "3:16 and a half."
I feel very guilty, I feel obnoxious, useless,
demented, I feel
sleepy in the afternoon,
they are bombing the churches, o.k., that's o.k.,
the libraries are filled with thousands of books of knowledge,
great music sits inside the nearby radio
and I am sleepy in the afternoon,
I have this tomb within myself that says,
ah, let the others do it, let them win,
let me sleep,
the wisdom is in the dark
sweeping through the dark like brooms,
I'm going where the summer flies have gone,
try to catch me.

I can`t think again. Not ever again. I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wantet to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That's why I'm trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.

Gå bort / ikke forstyrr meg / jeg har det travelt / jeg drømmer

queers do this
or is it that you're
afraid to die?
biceps, triceps, forceps,
what are you going to do
with muscles?
well, muscles please the the ladies
and keep the bullies
at bay—
so
what?
is it worth it?
is it worth the collected works
of Balzac?
or a 3 week vacation
in Spain?
or, is it another way of
suffering?
if you got paid to do it,
you'd hate it.
if a man got paid to make love,
he'd hate it.

still, one needs the
exercise—
this writing game:
only the brain and soul get
worked-out.
quit your bitching and
do it.
while other people are
sleeping
you're lifting a mountain
with rivers of poems
running off.

the best one can settle for
is an afternoon
with the rent paid, some food in the refrigerator,
and death something like
a bad painting by a bad painter
(that you finally buy because there's not
anything else
around).

gnore all possible concepts and possibilities – ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust – just make it, babe, make it: a house a car a belly full of beans pay your taxes fuck and if you can't fuck copulate. make money but don't work too hard – make somebody else pay to relax, and stay of the streets wipe your ass real good use a lot of toilet paper it's bad manners to let people know you shit or could smell like it if you weren't careful.