DIE BESTEN ZITATE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 150): KATER-BLUES

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hanker6

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DIE BESTEN ZITATE DES

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CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 150)

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KATER-BLUES

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hank2

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„Ich hatte fünf Tage frei, und was für fünf;

nur gut, daß ich euch (= Jon & Lou Webb)

nicht besucht habe, denn ich bin vollkommen

ausgerastet und im Suff auf den Straßen

rumgefallen, mit ramponierten blutverkrusteten

Knien und Ellbogen, auf denen ich jedesmal

gelandet bin, während ich mich rumgeschmissen

habe wie eine Mülltonne. Was für ein Schlamassel,

ich weiß, und so sinnlos … Ich glaube, niemand

außer einem Trinker kann sich eine Vorstellung

machen von dem grausig-gräßlichem Blues,

der fällig ist, wenn man verkatert ist.“

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hank1

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DIE BESTEN ZITATE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 131): TOT

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hanker6

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DIE BESTEN ZITATE DES

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CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 131)

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TOT

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hank2

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„Ich muß immer noch

erwachsen werden;

und ich fürchte sehr,

wenn es soweit ist,

werde ich tot sein.“

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hank1

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DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 51): I WAIT IN THE WHITE RAIN

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bukkk2

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DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

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CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 51)

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I WAIT IN THE WHITE RAIN

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aaa 3

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I wait in the white rain for knives like your tongue
I see the spiral clowns fountain up with myths untrue,
I wrestle spasms in the dark on dark stairways
while dollar crazy landladies
are threaded with the hot needles of sperm,
come these morning drunks
brushing away sunlight from eyes like a web,
come darling, come gloria patri, come luck,
come anything,
this is the hot way—
points sticking in like armadillos
in the rear of a Benedictine mind,
and snow snow snow snow snow
shovel all the snow upon me I can hold,
gingerbread mouth, duck-like dick,
raisins for buttons, thread for heart-strings,
damned waves of blood caught in them
like a minnow in the Tide of Everywhere
I wait in the white rain for knives like your tongue
and the trucks go by
with bankrupt faces
the steam of their essence like foul sweat
stale stink death in my socks
all the drums of hell
cannot awaken a rhythm within me
I am gone
like an old pale goldfish
dead and stiff as aunt Helen
looking flat-eyed into the center of my brain
and flushed away like any other waste of man,
the man-turd, the breath of life,
and why we don’t go mad as roaches, why not more
suicides I’ll never know
as I wait in the white rain for knives like your tongue,
I am done, quite; like any ford that cuts off a river
I am done forever and only,
this christ-awful waiting on the end of a stale movie,
everyone screaming for beauty and victory
like children for candy,
my hands open
unamazed hand
unamazed mind
unamazed doorsill
send your flowers to Shakey Joe
or Butternaut Carlyle
who might trade them to useful purpose
before everything, everyone
is dead.

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buke24

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DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES CHARLES BUKOWSKI (TEIL 50): THE TRAGEDY OF THE LEAVES

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hanker74

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DIE BESTEN GEDICHTE DES

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CHARLES BUKOWSKI

(TEIL 50)

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THE TRAGEDY OF THE LEAVES

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hanker73

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I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady’s note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that’s the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world has failed us
both.

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hanker72

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