Archive for writers
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
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dining room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.
Raw With Love
little dark girl with
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won’t blame you,
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
who made me laugh
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won’t use it
“In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself,
I deposited the manuscript in the basinette,
and placed the baby in the hand-bag.”
(Miss Prism from ‘The Importance of Being Ernest’)
I keep thinking about the way
blackberries will make the mouth
of an eight year old look like he’s a ghost
that’s been shot in the face. In the dark I can see
my older brother walking through the tall brush
of his brain. I can see him standing
in the lobby of the hotel,
alone, crying along with the ice machine.