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Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski

Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles. It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually having over 60 books in print. In 1986 Time called Bukowski a "laureate of American lowlife".

Bukowski interview part 10

“If you’ve got to be anything, be an alcoholic”

Barbet Schroeder (an Iranian filmmaker) interviews Charles Bukowski with short and expansive questions or statements that attract Hanks very elaborate mind into a sea of history and experience that he beholds and reveals in a truthfully expressive way. You can see his drunken enlightenment shine through as he lacks all inhibitions through his body language and speech. You can also see he is a comfortable person, secure and happy in his dreary alcoholism that he has embraced without denial for many a year. He sits drinks and talks casually about his views of drugs and alcohol. Utterly sincerely he portrays his views upon cannabis addicts and their inferiority to alcoholics. His beer in hand and the first words from his mouth cooperate with his reality. It seems as if he has dwelled on the subject slightly and through experience considered drinking the superior substance. The interview is filmed very simply, A dark background so as to focus ourselves on the man himself and his story. Hanks words are the most important aspect of the film because this is what he is known for.  As this section of the interview comes to a close Barbet zooms away from Hanks face to show he is outside sat in what looks like a lawn chair content in his home, a beer clutched in hand as he takes a swig to possibly show his reverence for the substance that he sinks happily into his throat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAhrr7JNlhk&feature=related

fermented cannibal sea lions

Beyond traffic stealing homewards and the mellow blackbirds cry
 Before me and my eye lie of sad foot fat and tied
Belonging to a fellow who in a mac of yellow leaning backwards to the keel
 Head over heel had found himself drowned and drifting through the town
like a piece of wood Old and stood.

Sewers and Canal's his path tramps viewing queerly as his yellow mass doth pass
  he must have meandered to my feet the colour of a diseased winter's wheat
What was the mystery of the scurvy looking treat that doth tassle my feet
 Touching my belly weak and my eyes like a seeping teet

Nausea still I trampled on swiftly forgetting the massy pong of the throng
 they crowded still around the corpse  deciding on neither knives nor forks
 But yet to slash him from his bone digging into the well known
 And gone before the sounds of slicing found my ear I gandered merry beyond the near .

Cadaver's gone from my head and darkest lanes in cobbled wake
Thought Instead to means of bread

I Love my girlfriend