Ja volim kako jebe kurcem u pičku, i kako mu ribe ustima puše kurac. I tako. Ma, bukovski je car. Ja sam njegov bludni unuk.
ja jesam. volim ga,
volim ga jer je drugačiji, prvi. nema mu ravnog :)
Alo bre, ja sam se prva setila :))
Sve je to pogresno,nema veze sa onim sto je pisao i sta je hteo da kaze.Jel citao neko pesme i kratke price?
Verovatno je jedan od najlosije shvacenih pisaca ikada.
Ja ga isto volim. Ali mislim da mu je Bludni sin najgore delo. Obozavam njegove pesme. Recimo:
http://migbike.wordpress.com/2008/07/10/dreamlessly-charles-bukowski/
A vidi stvarno, zaboravio sam da smo rođaci. :)
kriss dušo, ti si još mala da čitaš bukovskog :P
aa nisam zekoo.. polako ali sigurno se pripremam da krenem njegovim, henrijevim, tvojim stopama :D
Pa ima veze sa godinama, zaista, jer mnogi imaju tendenciju da ga poistovete sa slikom perverznjaka, ali on je, osim toga:), mnogo mnogo vise...
moja omiljena je Bluebird http://plagiarist.com/poetry/137/
i nekako imam osecaj da ga zene najbolje shvataju,a ako ga ne shvate onda verovatno spadaju u grupu alhemicarmijeomiljenaknjigaisvrsavamnasvakiizbljuvakpaolakoelja.
Bludni sin je super samo treba da shvatis da je pisao o ljubavi,na neobican nacin.
Vise volim pesme nego knjige i mislim da su one njegovo pravo stvaralastvo,ima u jednoj knjizi gde kaze da je pisao knjige zbog love i da bi se zabavljao dok su pesme ono pravo.
Uh, ja imam defku o Alhemicaru:) Bas ga ne volim:)
Debeli, pogledaj ovo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9WI9Zn0lRs
Uradjeno na temu njegove pesme
The Man with the Beautiful Eyes
hvala pufnice,nisam cuo ovu jos,ne mogu da nadjem pesme na engleskom a necu da citam glupave prevode,odlican primer onoga sto sam napisao gore
Samo izguglaj:) Svega ima na netu. Da, definitivno delimo misljenje.
jednom sam naisao na prevode na italijanskom i zamalo da bacim peglu koliko su odvratni,kao da ih je pisao neko drugi.
super sto jos neko ima ispravno misljenje o Bukowskom,sweeeet
2 Flies
The flies are angry bits of life;
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry
that they are flies;
it is not my fault;
I sit in the room
with them
and they taunt me
with their agony;
it is as if they were
loose chunks of soul
left out of somewhere;
I try to read a paper
but they will not let me
be;
one seems to go in half-circles
high along the wall,
throwing a miserable sound
upon my head;
the other one, the smaller one
stays near and teases my hand,
saying nothing,
rising, dropping
crawling near;
what god puts these
lost things upon me?
other men suffer dictates of
empire, tragic love…
I suffer
insects…
I wave at the little one
which only seems to revive
his impulse to challenge:
he circles swifter,
nearer, even making
a fly-sound,
and one above
catching a sense of the new
whirling, he too, in excitement,
speeds his flight,
drops down suddenly
in a cuff of noise
and they join
in circling my hand,
strumming the base
of the lampshade
until some man-thing
in me
will take no more
unholiness
and I strike
with the rolled-up-paper -
missing! -
striking,
striking,
they break in discord,
some message lost between them,
and I get the big one
first, and he kicks on his back
flicking his legs
like an angry whore,
and I come down again
with my paper club
and he is a smear
of fly-ugliness;
the little one circles high
now, quiet and swift,
almost invisible;
he does not come near
my hand again;
he is tamed and
inaccessible; I leave
him be, he leaves me
be;
the paper, of course,
is ruined;
something has happened,
something has soiled my
day,
sometimes it does not
take man
or a woman,
only something alive;
I sit and watch
the small one;
we are woven together
in the air
and the living;
it is late
for both of us.
Omiljena
Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
Čitala sam bluebird, ali na srpskom. Jako dobra. :D Nisu naši prevodi tako loši...ovu volim.
pisanje
često je to ono
jedino
između tebe i
nemogućeg.
nema tog pića
nema te ženske ljubavi
nema tog bogatstva
koje bi se
merilo s njim
ništa te ne može
spasiti
osim pisanja.
ono drži zidove
da se ne
uruše
sprečava horde
da zatvore obruč.
ono razbija
pomrčinu.
pisanje je
konačni
psihijatar,
najljubazniji
bog od svih
bogova.
pisanje prethodi
smrt.
ono ne zna za odustanak.
i pisanje se
smeje
samom sebi
i bolu.
ono je poslednje
očekivanje,
poslednje
objašnjenje.
to je
ono.
Jel citao neko?Ako jeste kako ga shvata itd.