Archive for L. K. Thayer’s Poetry Juice Bar
“The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”
we were never caught we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado worked odd jobs between delusions of escape drunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors driving faster than the road or law allowed. our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected authority. we could be heard for miles in the night the Grand Canyon of a new manhood. womanhood discovered like the first sighting of Mount Wilson we rebelled against the southwestern wind we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings, crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth we lived off love. It was all we had to eat when you split you took all the wisdom and left me the worry
so you want to be a writer?
|by Charles Bukowski|
if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.
“But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry.
I want danger. I want freedom. I want goodness.
I want sin.”
Cacophony, disaster, chaos, the sources that fuel the existence of the self. Incapable of shutting off the bullshit, of reducing its volume, of muting it out. A pissing contest of voices, fragments, history, fears, consciousness, Darwinism of decay, harassing the self, eradicating the self, a mutiny on board the SS Self, decapitating the captain and discarding him into the storm, the dunces have taken over, without a thought wasted on the consequences for the host.
The host is awaiting instruction. The host is puzzled. The host is startled. The host roams the streets. The war rages within, the war reaches without. The host sees his reflection in the window separating him from the spectacle of Starbucks. The host is a spirit that doesn’t belong, detached from the cozy, the sweet, the gentle, the smooth jazz, the paper cups, and the lattes and chais. The host is exposed, left without defense against the titter within. The host points his pistol at the spectacle but once again shoots himself, splattering brain matter against the glass as the jazz inside remains smooth.
A life under the orders from the clinically insane, the fears that erode the past, the ghosts that destroy the future, the grand sum of everything that contaminates the present, that is the curse. That is the sentence. Karma is a bitch. But for what. But for what. Leck mich am Arsch! Fick dich ins Knie! Picka ti materina. Vas the faire foutre. Fuck off you cunts and cocksuckers. Hate and Tourette’s, the blunt means of defense. Hate and Tourette’s, the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown self. Hate and Tourette’s, the expression of an existence as pointless as a pay phone in 2013.
- Matej Purg