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Атом аутентичности. Как найти себя и зарабатывать больше.

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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...

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Essential Bukowski: Poetry

Автор

Чарльз Буковски

Жанр

Cтихи и поэзия

Год написания книги

2019

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my head,

frightening gophers, eels and finding bits of golden

inlaid skull,

and they asked me, are you looking for oil, treasure,

gold, the end of China? are you looking for love, God,

a lost key chain? and little girls dripping ice-cream

peered into my darkness, and a psychiatrist came

and a

college professor and a movie actress in a bikini, and

a Russian spy and a French spy and an English spy,

and a drama critic and a bill collector and an old

girlfriend, and they all asked me, what are you

looking

for? and soon it began to rain . . . atomic submarines

changed course, Tuesday Weld hid behind a newspaper,

Jean-Paul Sartre rolled in his sleep, and my hole

filled

with water; I came out black as Africa, shooting

stars

and epitaphs, my pockets full of lovely worms,

and they took me to their jail and gave me a shower

and a nice cell, rent-free, and even now the people

are picketing in my cause, and I have signed

contracts to appear on the stage and television,

to write a guest column for the local paper and

write a book and endorse some products, I have

enough money to last me several years at the best

hotels, but as soon as I get out of here, I’m gonna

find me another loose slab and begin to dig, dig,

dig, and this time I’m not coming back . . . rain, shine,

or bikini, and the reporters keep asking, why did you

do it? but I just light my cigarette and smile . . .

the tragedy of the leaves (#ulink_b1582e28-deec-5b18-bfb0-0f3481afb7f2)

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