The Poetry Reading – Bukowski


at high noon
at a small college near the beach
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god, they must think I love this like the others
but it’s for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I’m tense lousy feel bad
poor people, I’m failing I’m failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
it’s too late.
my eyes can’t see some lines
I read it
desperate trembling
they can’t hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that’s it, I’m
and later in my room
there is scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were


Tell Them

When they ask you,
and I know they will someday.

Tell them it was for
the slice of sky
that smelled like your
tepid past, for nostalgia
reverberating as consensual
like a dream is forgotten
at the end of the night.

tell them it was for
the glimpse of nature:
the pregenable beauty,
for your assailable heart;
though after being enclosed
in those bony rib-cages,
I knew they would
melt every time
at the slightest touch of you.
It was for that touch.

tell them it was for
end of the everlasting hunger,
an conclusion to this unending madness,
to describe a whirlpool
of blurred visions,
emasculating every second
by the dark whispers in broad

When they ask,
Why you started writing,
Tell them it was for yourself only.
For your demons and their exorcisms
performed ritually twice a day.
Tell them it would remain that way.
Forever and ever.


The Night’s a Serpent


Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.

Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust

The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.

I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.

Don’t Drink the Chaos

The cubicle welcomes you
come now sit, go through your e-mails
do your work proudly.

No! Don’t let your eyes wander outside,
it is just a beautiful tree in wind,
just a pond with ripples of water ,
There are no shapes out of them that you can imagine.
There are no memories in their shadows.
This silence ain’t whispering you to write.
Close the notepad.
Just don’t write a new poem again.
Don’t be maniacal.
You need caffeine,
to drift away from your thoughts.
Just fuck them, right?
You gotta work now.

Just don’t search now on the web,
How Hemingway blew his head,
How Sylvia path asphyxiated herself while
her children were asleep,
How Fitzgerald’s heart betrayed him,
How Kerouac died of cirrhosis,
How that old lazy fat fuck Bukowski
told you once to go all the way
otherwise don’t even try.

You are not one of them,
You shall not be one of them.
you are drinking your chaos within,
they all gave in,
they couldn’t drink it.

but you are drowning it in caffeine
and shitting out tons of work.
you shall survive.
if you want to.

But I know you won’t.
I can see it in your eyes,
so go on write then
as you always have.
Make it worth it.
Don’t drink the chaos within


The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes the child within me.

I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.

I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.

I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.

I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.

I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.

I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.


as the dawn
proceeds to the dusk,

a thousand images
of this beautiful world,
rotate and change,
sublime visions,

my capillaries,
and adrenaline
burst straight up
like a heroin abuser
drowning in a pool of dreams.

for I have been summoned
to peek in this kaleidoscope,
we sometimes call life,
and I just stare.

the mirrors would shatter soon,
the music will slither in,
it would be dark and damp.

Just as I dreamt once.
that night.

Write Something Beautiful


Caress the playful waves,
breathe the snowflakes of this breeze,
stroll the unseen paths carelessly,
in the dreams within your dream,

Kiss the dying horizon,
feel the sand below your feet,
embrace the horses that once rode
the beaches,
just like your old memories

Besmirch the nightmares slowly,
wake up alone in these hallowed nights,
comfort all what is left within yourself,
feel this earth again without the lights

When it all comes back to you,
and I know it will,
write something beautiful about it,
let those waiting pages finally fill.