Come not near our Lady nigh-
Lulla-, Lulla-, Lulla-, lay.
Lulla-, Lulla-, Lullaby...
Sometimes lurk I in a Gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a withered crab;
And when She drinks against her lips I bob-
and on her Withered Dewlap pour the ale- The Wisest Aunt,
Telling the Saddest Tale...
Though speakest aright!
SHIT howdy Bukowski and Mailer are wrong about one thing. Shakespeare. Anyone who can't digest his deft, broad plagiarism for what it is- the swiftest bit of Human Surveillance ever penned- ought not leave the Outhouse after breakfast. Buk again fails at the Beatles- he was too dedicated to enjoy any species of fluffery.
God love the bastard- how many of us are Ourselves?
And shill his style, my writing friends: He only Capitalized his sentences when it served a narrative purpose. Bukowski was the softspoken mindfuck the psychologists all dread like cankersore. He scorned all style and grammar for pure thrust, and unlike the other wasted prophets of our age- our Kerouacs and Ginsburgs and all of them worth my cornshit but for Neal Cassady who refused to write- Buk pierced your bubble till you danced beneath it, your hand on your cock hidden from the world and GRINNING like some new breed of bastard.
Too bad he couldn't Dig da Bard.
I wonder if Bukowski Dug Kurosawa.
1 comment:
I could not agree more.
Post a Comment