Episode 122: Charles Bukowski

Charles BukowskiWhat a perfectly wicked man.Perfectly wicked!Perfectly wretched!But truly, honestly so.
Give me one man Who is what he is,And nothing more pretended.
You know that you secretlyHang upon his poems.Because they are real.You steal away When you believe That no-one is watching.And it is you we seeCowering. Hunched over.Hanging upon:
"If it doesn't come bursting out of you...Don't do it!"
But then of a SabbathYou dress in your SundaysAnd sit at the feet Of your whited sepulchers.You pretend That you believe The polished poisonThat drips Like Calamine Lotion Into your itching, bleeding ears.Tell us lies, you say.Tickle us with your forked tonguesAnd make us believe That you are truly good,That one can be good.You know that it is liesBut you clamor:Tell us againHow you slew the dragon.Tell us how you ever And ever Were and areAll that we hoped you to be.We know it is lies,but tell us againso that we too,May one dayWorship at our own feet.
Charles Bukowski...Spin us a poem From the dirty.Wretched.Street that you are.Only there do we worshipThe thing that is realThe thing that is bestAs it is - No more.
We tooAre wretchedBut are loath to admit.Aspiring hypocrites, We sit huddled roundTo hear...The Truth.Not the TruthOf what man believes,But The Truth Of whatWe really are:Just wicked.Wretched.Miserable men.Like good old Charles Bukowski.