El viejo Buk

El viejo Buk o Hank, es bastante conocido por sus novelas que están dentro del  género denominado realismo sucio.
En sus poemas , se percibe la influencia de Nietzsche, aunque Hank -obviamente- es mucho menos académico. Estos poemas relatan experiencias de borracheras, mujeres de la vida, fracasos, el otro lado del sueño americano, que muchas personas recién comprenden ahora.
Alcohólico y desesperado, la voz de Bukowski se levanta como un grito cínico, despiadado y profundamente humano frente a la deshumanización de la sociedad posmoderna.
Charles Bukowski nació en Andermach, Alemania, en 1920 y vivió en Los Ángeles hasta su muerte en 1994.

“that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?

and I said
I’m a poet

And she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.

you? you . . . a poet?

I guess you’re right, I said. I guess you’re right.”

“that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?

and I said
I’m a poet

And she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.

you? you . . . a poet?

I guess you’re right, I said. I guess you’re right.”

Death of an idiot

he spoke to mice and sparrows
and his hair was white at the age of 16. 
his father beat him every day and his mother 
lit candles in the church. 
his grandmother came while the boy slept 
and prayed for the devil to let loose his hold upon 
him 
while his mother listened and cried over the 
bible. 

he didn't seem to notice young girls 
he didn't seem to notice the games boys played 
there wasn't much he seemed to notice 
he just didn't seem interested. 

he had a very large, ugly mouth and the teeth 
stuck out 
and his eyes were small and lusterless. 
his shoulders were slumped and his back was bent 
like an old man's. 

he lived in our neighborhood. 
we talked about him when we got bored and then
went on to more interesting things. 
he seldom left his house. we would have liked to 
torture him 
but his father 
who was a huge and terrible man 
tortured him for 
us. 

one day the boy died. at 17 he was still a 
boy. a death in a small neighborhood is noted with 
alacrity, and then forgotten 3 or 4 days 
later. 

but the death of this boy seemed to stay with us 
all. we kept talking about it 
in our boy-men's voices 
at 6 p.m. just before dark 
just before dinner. 

and whenever I drive through that neighborhood now 
decades later 
I still think of his death 
while having forgotten all the other deaths 
and everything else that happened 
then.

( From Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame )

Todo

" Los muertos no necesitan
aspirina o
tristeza
supongo.

pero quizás necesitan
lluvia.
zapatos no
pero un lugar donde
caminar.

cigarrillos no,
nos dicen,
pero un lugar donde
arder.

O nos dicen:
Espacio y un lugar para
volar,
da
igual.

los muertos no me
necesitan.

ni los
vivos.

pero quizás los muertos se necesitan
unos a
otros.

En realidad, quizás necesitan
todo lo que nosotros
necesitamos

y
necesitamos tanto
Si solo supiéramos
que
es.

probablemente
es
todo

y probablemente
todos nosotros moriremos
tratando de
conseguirlo

o moriremos

porque no
lo
conseguimos.

Espero que
cuando yo este muerto
comprendaís

que conseguí
tanto
como
pude. "

ABRAZA LA OSCURIDAD



La confusión es el dios
la locura es el dios
la paz permanente de la vida
es la paz permanente de la muerte.
La agonía puede matar
o puede sustentar la vida
pero la paz es siempre horrible
la paz es la peor cosa
caminando
hablando
sonriendo
pareciendo ser.
no olvides las aceras,
las putas,
la traición,
el gusano en la manzana,
los bares, las cárceles
los suicidios de los amantes.

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