Cheers! Thanks for watching!

Thanks for watching!

It's no different than what you are here doing, trying to sound like your so much smarter then them by putting down his writing but you didn't give a single reason for this opinion of yours, it seems to me like something you just heard someone else say and now you going around repeating it cause you think it makes you better then other people but I'll bet you can't explain why you think this about him

@@lonsalerno2441 Bukowski's ramblings are not poetry, poetry has rhythm and rhyme, tells a story or has a moral, his work is just subjective prose and it has different meanings for different people hearing it, there's no substance, mostly it's just introspective misery and negativity. My worst poetry is far better than anything Bukowski wrote. E.G. FOREVER LOST - Lili I sat upon a lonely beach, watched the gulls and crabs devour The remains of one large man, no clothes, no eyes, one hand As I enjoyed the morning sun, the waves had washed him clean I lazed there for a little while and then began to dream And wondered of his story, his sad demise upon the sand. - I slowly woke when day had cooled and found I wasn’t alone A Spectre sat at my right side and smiled at my surprise I was a wanderer he said, a Tramp, a Sailor wild And I pray the sea will take me and scatter all my bones I’ll tell the story of my murder, no profit now in lies For I was just a Gypsy, stolen from my tribe as child. - Sunken deep within the mire of crime, four lads with time to kill And kill we did whenever, we found the chance of coin The guilty and the innocent, none spared or conscience felt The hand of Satan on my shoulder, the tempest in my loins But treachery’s around us all and treachery was dealt When I stole within the clan, a wench I didn’t own.- I lost my eyes, I lost my hand, I’m destined now to roam The lonely shore for evermore, no life, no friends, no hand He wandered back to where his form lay rotting on the sand Sometimes I hear a wailing, from that Spectre in the foam He cannot see, he can’t be free, his anger, hate demand The death of any stranger who happens by his home. - The beach looks so inviting for swimmers to its shore Currents deep and fast, take the unwary to the deep Every Summer takes its toll, the Spectre calls for more The warning signs upon the sand, only tempt the brave Dragged out to sea among the fish, reward eternal sleep There’ll be no sleep for the vagabond, the sand his lonely grave.

@Lili-Benovent I think for many people, Bukowski's poems can be a hit or miss. And I've to disagree, because being a Sophist is not a bad way a poet can be perceived. Personally I only understand a handful of Bukowski's poems, but the ones that I liked I feel punch you in the guts.

@@lonsalerno2441 I did reply to you, there must be a Bukowski fan amongst the moderators at KZfaq because my reply was deleted. I stated that Bukowski wasn't a poet, at best he narrated dismal introspective prose which is so subjective it could mean anything to anybody. Good poetry has rhythm and rhyme, it tells a story, projects a moral or is just for entertainment, Bukowski's rambling has none of these. He likes to write about life on the streets but life on the streets is different for people who have a choice or are wealthy such as Bukowski. This is my poem about reality for a lot of people today. DIFFERENT EYES Lili The rat infested holes in which we Derros dwell Fighting for our daily bread with us as much as them For others looking at our lives perceived as living Hell If we can find an alley, with a corner safe and dry Then we are Kings for just a night and we don’t question why We’re creatures of the shadows from which existence stems. - The city is a cruel Lord and all we have is time There’ll be no hand to lift us up, no help to find a bed We waste our time wandering, with others of our kind Talking dreams, opportunity, reality and crime And those among us jackals, put their brothers on the spike Promise bliss for just a time, escape from life, sublime. - It’s all our fault we are told, by people who don’t know Just get a job and buy a house but none will ever employ A black who can’t afford to eat, a white who’s tired and slow For this is what the streets give us and Winter is the worst The frozen parks, incessant rain, back in our holes we go We try the subway, bus stations; move on, the middle class comes first. - Charity comes with a hook, the drone of pray to God We’ll give a little, not a lot, endeavour to change your life To one of fierce obedience to Jesus in the sky And if you let us take control for one small meal a day You’ll struggle on and on through life and then one day you’ll die A mansion awaits you in the clouds, if you pray and pray and pray. - But Spring brings hope, all Nature’s good, to creatures all awake Nature provides enough to eat, a nest a tree a cave But man must find their own abode and man exploits the poor So back into the tents on streets us Derros slink once more And every day it seems there’s more, one paycheck from the street This lucky country prosperous once, now greed’s a festering sore.

​@@Lili-Benovent good poetry has rythm and rhyme, go back to kindergarden fool, poetry makes you feel, rules are meant to be broken, his poetry falls into the category of free verse, and if you think Bukowski is subjective, you are dense. 🤓 even poems with clear narratives can be interpreted differently. The power of poetry often lies in its ability to evoke emotions and personal connections. but but poetry needs a story and a morality, literal winnieh the pooh level expectations, dont even bother answering with a wall of text, because I know it will be rubbish.