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the_lizard_king
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  გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 19:54  #8292432      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · aim
კაცი გენია

Trapped

Don't undress my love
You might find a mannequin:
Don't undress the mannequin
You might find
My love.


***

Working Out

Van Gogh Cut Off His Ear
Gave it to a
Prostitute
Who flung it away in
Extreme
Disgust.


***

Swastika

The President of the United States of America entered his car,
surrounded by his agents. He sat in the back seat. It was a dark and
unimpressive morning. Nobody spoke. They rolled away and the tires could be
heard on a street still wet from the preceding night's rain. The silence was
more unusual than it had ever been before.
They drove along a while and then the President spoke:
"Say, this isn't the way to the airport."
His agents didn't answer. A vacation had been scheduled. Two weeks at
his private home. His plane was waiting at the airport.
It began to drizzle. It looked as if it might rain again. The men,
including the President, were dressed in heavy overcoats; hats; it made the
car seem very full. Outside, the cold wind was steady.
"Driver," said the President, "I believe you're on the wrong course."
The driver didn't answer. The other agents stared straight ahead.
"Listen," said the President, "will somebody tell that man the way to
the airport?"
"We're not going to the airport," said the agent to the President's
left.
"We're not going to the airport?" the President asked.
The agents were again quiet. The drizzle became rain. The driver turned
the wipers on.
"Listen, what is it?" asked the President. "What's going on here?"
"It's been raining for weeks," said the agent next to the driver. "It
gets depressive. "I'll certainly be glad to see a little sunshine."
"Yes, me too," said the driver.
"Something's wrong here," said the President, "I demand to know-"
"You are no longer in a position to demand," said the agent to the
President's right.
"You mean?-"
"We mean," said the same agent.
"Is it to be an assassination?" asked the President.
"Hardly. That's old-fashioned."
"Then what-"
"Please. We have orders not to discuss anything."

They drove for some hours. It continued to rain. Nobody spoke.
"Now," said the agent to the President's left, "circle again, then turn
in. We're not being followed. The rain has been very helpful."
The car circled the area, then turned up a small dirt road. It was
muddy and now and then the tires spun, slipped, then gripped again and the
car went on. A man in a yellow raincoat held a flashlight and directed them
into an open garage. It was an isolated area with many trees. A small
farmhouse sat to the left of the garage. The agents opened the car doors.
"Get out," they told the President. The President did so. The agents
kept the President carefully between them, although there wasn't a human
within miles except for the man with the flashlight and the yellow raincoat.
"I don't see why we couldn't have done the whole thing here," said the
man in the yellow raincoat. "It certainly seems much riskier the other way."
"Orders," said one of the agents. "You know how it is. He's always gone
a lot on intuition. He does so now, more than ever."
"It's very cold. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? It's ready."
"That's good of you. It's been a long drive. I presume the other car is
all ready to go?"
"Of course. It's been checked again and again. Actually, we're about
ten minutes ahead on the timetable. That's one reason I suggested the
coffee. You know how he is about precision."
"O.K., then, let's go in."
Keeping the President carefully between them, they entered the
farmhouse.
"You sit there," one of the agents told the President.
"It's good coffee," said the man in the yellow raincoat, "hand-ground."
He walked around with the pot. He poured himself one, then sat down,
still in the yellow raincoat, only the headpiece thrown on the stove.
"Ah, it is good," said on of the agents.
"Cream And sugar?" one of them asked the President.
"All right," he said-

There wasn't much room in the old car but they all managed to get in,
with the President again in the back seat-The old car also slipped in the
mud and rutholes but made it to the road. Again, it was a silent ride most
of the way. Then one of the agents lit a cigarette.
"Damn it, I just can't stop smoking!"
"Well, it's a hard thing to do, that's all. Don't worry about it."
"I'm not worried about it. Just disgusted with myself."
"Well, forget all that. This is a great day in History."
"I'll say so!" said the one with the cigarette.
Then he inhaled-

They parked outside an old roominghouse. It continued to rain. They sat
there some moments.
"Now," said the agent next to the driver, "get him out. It's clear.
Nobody on the streets."
They walked the President between them, first through the front door,
then up 3 flights of steps, always keeping the President between them. They
stopped and knocked at 306. The signal: one knock, pause, two knocks-
The door was opened and the men quickly pushed the President inside.
The door was then locked and bolted. Three men were waiting inside. Two were
in their 50's. The other sat in an outfit that consisted of an old laborer's
shirt, 2nd-hand trousers that were too large and ten dollar shoes, scuffed
and unpolished. He sat in a rocker in the center of the room. He was in his
80's but he smiled-and the eyes were those same eyes; the nose, the chin,
the forehead hadn't changed much.
"Welcome, Mr. President. I've waited a long time on History and Science
and You, and all have arrived, on schedule, today-"
The President looked at the old man in the rocker. "Great God! You're-
you are-"
"You've recognized me! Others of your citizens have made jokes about
the similarity! Too stupid to even realize that I was-"
"But it was proven that-"
"Of course, it was proven. The bunkers: April 30th, 1945. We wanted it
that way. I've been patient. Science was with us but at times I had to speed-
up History. We wanted the right man. You are the right man. The others were
too impossible --- too alienated from my political philosophy- You are far
more ideal. By working through you it will be easier. But as I said, I had
to speed-up the reel of History a bit-my age-I had to-"
"You mean-?"
"Yes. I had your president Kennedy assassinated. And then, his brother-
"
"But why the 2nd assassination?"
We had information that that young man would have won the presidential
election."
"But what are you going to do with me? I've been told that I'm not to
be assassinated-"
"May I introduce Drs. Graf and Voelker?"
The two men nodded at the President and smiled.
"But what is going to happen?" asked the President.
"Please. Just a moment. I must question my men. Karl, how did it go
with The Double?"
"Fine. We phoned from the farm. The Double arrived at the airport on
schedule. The Double announced, that due to weather conditions, he was
canceling the flight until tomorrow. Then The double announced that he would
take a pleasure drive-that it pleased him to be driven about in the rain-"
"And the rest?" asked the old man.
"The Double is dead."
"Fine. Let's get on with it then. History and Science have arrived on
Time."
The agents began walking the President toward one of the two operating
tables. They asked him to disrobe. The old man walked to the other table.
Drs. Graf and Voelker climbed into their medical gowns and made ready for
the task-
The young-looking of the 2 men arose from one of the operating tables.
He dressed himself in the President's clothing, then walked to the full-
length mirror on the north wall. He stood for a good 5 minutes. Then he
turned.
"It is miraculous! Not even any operating scars-no recuperating period.
Congratulations, gentlemen! How do you do it?"
"Well, Adolph," answered one of the doctors, "we've come a long way
since-"
"WAIT! I am never to be addressed as 'Adolph' again-until the proper
time, until I say so!-Until then, there will be no German spoken-I am now
the President of the United States of America!"
"Yes, Mr. President!"
Then he reached and touched above his upper lip:
"But I do miss the old mustache!"
They smiled.
Then he asked:
"And the old man?"
"We've placed him in the bed. He will not awaken for 24 hours. At this
moment-everything-all appendages of the oper- ation have been destroyed,
dissolved. All we need do is walk out of here," said Dr.Graf. "But-Mr.
President, it is my suggestion that this man be-"
"No, I tell you, he's helpless! Let him suffer as I have suffered!"
He walked over to the bed and looked down at the man. A white-haired
old man in his 80's.
"Tomorrow I'll be in his private home. I wonder how his wife will enjoy
my lovemaking?" he gave a small laugh.
"I'm sure, mein Fuhrer-I'm sorry! Please! I'm sure, Mr. President, that
she will enjoy your love-making very much."
"Let's leave this place, then. The doctors first, to go their way.then
the rest of us-one or two at a time-a transfer of cars, then a good night's
sleep at the White House."

The old man with the white hair awakened. He was alone in the room. He
could escape. He got out of the bed in search of his clothing and as he
walked across the room he saw an old man in a full-length mirror.

No, he thought, oh my god, no!
He raised an arm. The old man in the mirror raised an arm. He moved
forward. The old man in the mirror enlarged. He looked down at his hands ---
wrinkled, and not his hands! And he looked down at his feet! They weren't
his feet! It wasn't his body!
"My God!" he said aloud, "OH MY GOD!"
Then he heard his voice. It wasn't even his own voice. They'd
transferred the voice box also. He felt his throat, his head with his
fingers. No scars! No scars anywhere. He got into the old man's clothing and
ran down the stairway. At the first door he knocked on the door was marked
"Landlady."
The door opened. An old woman.
"Yes, Mr. Tilson?" she asked.
"'Mr. Tilson?' Lady, I am the President of the United States of
America! This is an emergency!"
"Oh, Mr. Tilson, you're so funny!"
"Look, where's your telephone?"
"Right where it has always been, Mr. Tilson. Just to the left of the
entrance door."
He felt in his pockets. They had left him change. He looked into the
wallet. $18. He put a dime in the phone.
"Lady, what's the address here?"
"Now, Mr. Tilson, you know the address. You've lived here for years!
You're acting very strange today, Mr. Tilson. And I want to tell you
something else!"
"Yes, yes- what is it?"
"I want to remind you that your rent is due today!"
"Oh, lady, please tell me the address here!"
"As if you didn't know! It's 2435 Shoreham Drive."
"Yes," he said into the phone, "cab? I want a cab at 2435 Shoreham
Drive. I'll be waiting on the first floor. My name? My name? All right, my
name is Tilson-"
It's no use going to the White House, he thought, they have that
covered-I'll go to the largest newspaper. I'll tell them. I'll tell the
editor everything, everything that happened-

The other patients laughed at him. "See that guy? The guy that kinda
looks like that dictator-fellow, what'-his-name, only a lot older. Anyhow,
when he came in here a month ago he claimed that he was the President of the
United States of America. That was a month ago. He doesn't say it too much
now. But he sure likes to read the newspapers. I never saw a guy who was so
eager to read a newspaper. He does know a lot about politics, though. I
guess that's what drove him crazy. Too much politics."
The dinner bell rang. All the patients responded. Except one.
A male nurse walked up to him.
"Mr. Tilson?"
There wasn't any answer.

"MR. TILSON?"

"Oh-yes?"
"It's time to eat, Mr. Tilson!"
The old white-haired man rose and walked slowly toward the patients'
dining room.


Charles Bukowski

user posted image

This post has been edited by the_lizard_king on 26 Jan 2008, 19:56


--------------------
Flowerz In My Brain

Remediosi
ბოჟიდაროვა


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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 20:03  #8292536      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ვებგვერდი
the_lizard_king
ეს ერთმა შენმა ტოლმა ბიჭმა დაწერა ბუკოვსკიზე. მოგეწონება. smile.gif

Реквием по Чарльзу Буковски.

В абсолютной темноте снова хлынули слёзы. Меня охватило томительное, сладкое чувство, и всё исчезло, и весь я превратился в чистую, прозрачную воду, которая исторгалась слезами, ничего не оставляя после себя. Ясунари Кавабата.

Как-то одинокой ночью я переводил "Парижский Дневник" Моррисона.

I write like this

to seize you

gimme your love your

tire eyes sad for

delivery

На столе горела свеча, комната была наполнена запахом индийских благовоний и табачным дымом.

Я устал, часы в кабинете пробили четыре. Светало. Фотография Джима: спутанные длинные волосы, окладистая борода, так старящая его, бездонно грустные глаза человека, загнанного в угол, нет, загнавшего себя в угол. Сведшего себя со смертью.

Перевод зашёл в тупик. Я вырвал листы из тетради, смял их, положил в пепельницу, поджёг и сел на кровать читать Буковски. Великие поэты умирают в дымящихся горшках с дерьмом, дурацкие Иисусы. Пиво, поэты и разговоры, лиловый как ирис, глаза как небо.

Крыса прижалась к прутьям клетки и смотрела на меня своими чёрными глазками.

Два года назад у нас была отличная компания. М., сын П. А., Схватившего Букера за один из своих дерьмовых романов, носил длинные волосы и играл на гитаре. В подсобке на последнем этаже нашей школы, где хранились старые книги, реквизит школьных спектаклей и прочий хлам, была дверка в вентиляционный ход, опоясывающий всё здание школы, в котором кто-то поставил пару стульев. Там мы курили и прогуливали уроки.

С., которого все называли Кудрявым, писал эссе о Гумилёве, которые никогда не печатал и мало кому давал читать, был без ума от Моррисона и неплохо играл на бильярде. Отец Х., В. Х., переводил Грина, Во и Сарояна, поэтому Х. пошёл по стопам отца и корпел над Оденом, а свои длинные волосы убирал в хвостик на манер Д'Артаньяна.

Д. писал стихи - мелом на стенах домов, на асфальте, на чужих машинах. Его брат, джанки, умер в подъезде собственного дома, поэтому Д. был мрачным и никогда не фотографировался.

Плавая в сигаретном дыму, мы говорили о Кафке, Берроузе, Кизи, Буковски. Мы читали вслух стихотворения Гинзберга, глотали колёса и искренне считали Баркова талантливее Пушкина. С бутылкой вина мы любили посидеть в добрых двориках старых домов. Я подарил на день рожденья одной девушке белую розу - в знак нашей дружбы. Напившись, я эту розу съел, а стебелёк заткнул за ухо. Лежал в сырой траве и смотрел на небо.

Гоголь был не умевшим писать психом. Роль Пушкина в русской литературе преувеличена. Не хрена было Грибоедову вообще соваться в литературу. Так мы говорили, вламываясь в бары, играя на бильярде и опустошая запасы спиртного.

На рожденья А. я пил с ним на спор. Потом пошёл майский ливень. Под дождём я целовал голый живот какой-то девушки, потому что не мог встать на ноги и поцеловать её в губы.

Романы Берроуза - страшное дерьмо. Потому что Берроуз гений. Он шьёт свои романы по мерке, снятой с этого мерзкого мира.

Ночь. Я пью матэ и вспоминаю.

Мы с Кудрявым сидели на Гоголевском и молча потягивали пиво. Холодало, и в магическом вальсе кружились первые опавшие листья.

Сигарета обретает необычный вкус, когда куришь ранним утром, стоя на карнизе шестого этажа, держась одной рукой за окно своего балкона. Сигарета обретает необычный вкус, когда куришь в постели с девушкой, которую видишь впервые.

С К. у нас была добрая традиция устраивать по выходным "Дни здоровья" у неё на Площади Ильича. Мы пили "Арбатское" и заваривали себе матэ, когда начинали пьянеть. Были моменты, настроения, ракурсы, взгляды, когда она казалась мне безумно красивой, в её глазах отражались всполохи костра, искры, кружась взмывавшие ввысь. У неё голос с хрипотцой. Она курит "Союз Аполлон" в мягкой пачке за восемь рублей.

Пять часов утра. Небо странное - чёрное, а в центре, прямо перед моим окном, повисли молочно-белые облака, медленно уплывающие за угол дома. Я курю в окно и дым летит в комнату, потому что ветер постоянно меняется. Я вдруг подумал, что Бог видит меня и делает это нарочно, чтобы в прокуренной комнате я не смог уснуть.

Рядом с моим окном окно лестничной клетки. Когда родители уходили, не оставляя мне ключей, приходили А., Кудрявый, Х. - все, и мы болтали, высунувшись в окна. Они кидали мне сигареты, а один раз на какой-то верёвке ухитрились передать бутылку пива. Я чувствовал себя Чарльзом Мэнсоном, готовящим побег из Сан-Квентина.

Что ни дай роду людскому, всё он исцарапает, искромсает и обосрёт. Бывают прямые ответы, а есть подсказки. Люди хватаются за подсказки, потому что недостаточно смелы, чтобы дать прямые ответы. Мы молоды и как нам казалось, достаточно смелы, чтобы дать прямые ответы.

Она носит широкие чёрные брюки. У неё светлые, не очень длинные, должно быть, крашеные волосы, прямые, но иногда она их завивает; сглаженные, будто немного смазанные, правильные черты лица. Не могу вспомнить цвета её глаз. Она невысокого роста и несомненно себе нравится.

Первый раз я увидел её на троллейбусной остановке ранней осенью, когда только начинало холодать. Я часто встречал там одного парня. Потом я увидел его в театре Гитиса на Тверской, где смотрел "Над пропастью во ржи". Иногда она приходит на остановку довольно рано, но чаще - в двадцать минут девятого.

Сегодня она доехала до Гоголевского. Вышла вместе со мной. Она подошла и попросила прикурить. Обычно, когда просят прикурить, немного пренебрежительно смотрят в сторону, пока человек роется в карманах - зажигалки часто теряются; Она смотрела прямо на меня, и когда прикуривала - тоже. Она не окликнула меня "Дай прикурить", а просто положила руку мне на плечо, я обернулся, увидел сигарету меж её алых губ и полез за зажигалкой, а она смотрела на меня и не сказала ни слова. Мы просто знаем друг друга в лицо, больше ничего, но мы выхватили друг друга из серой толпы, это уже много значит.

Она шла вниз по Знаменке, я - за ней. Потом я обогнал её и казалось, она прожигает взглядом мою спину. Я обернулся перед тем, как нырнуть в Малый Знаменский. Это стало интересной игрой. Ожидая утром троллейбуса, я курю и думаю, увижу ли её сегодня. Иногда я стараюсь подгадать время, чтобы встретить её. Мне нравится эта игра.

Я никого не любил, но ко всем был сильнейшим образом привязан. Пройдёт год, и я не смогу вспомнить её лица, не посмотрев на фотографию. Я забуду её голос и вкус её поцелуев. Я могу сказать: сегодня, неся потери, я прошёл ещё один этап своей жизни. Я всплакнул немного. Слёзы действительно солёные, раньше я этого не замечал. Они превращают моё лицо в карту рек.

Каждое событие в моей жизни знаменуется смехом или слезами. Слёзы вызывают воспоминания о том, что я потерял, смех - о том, чего никогда не имел.

Сейчас я ни о чём не жалею. Я не чувствую ни горя, ни радости, лишь безумно хочется курить. Немного успокоиться. Я многих потерял, часть своей жизни вместе с ними и благодаря им. Я меняюсь, и кто-то должен уходить. Не хочу лишь, чтобы ушла она. Всю свою жизнь я будто бреду по пыльной одинокой дороге под проливным дождём. Я мог бы назвал по именам всех своих друзей. Я уже их назвал.

Эта рукопись теряет свой смысл. Я мечусь между мыслей, как пойманная кошкой мышь. Я ставлю точку и откладываю ручку.

Чарльз Буковски умер семь лет назад. Пиздец.

Май-июнь 2001 года, Москва.


--------------------
Hallelujah
deka136
Congrats, I Hate You! Sweetheart, You're Sadly Mistaken


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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 20:07  #8292589      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ელფოსტა · ვებგვერდი · yim
იყოს მაინც biggrin.gif
რა იცი რა ხდება biggrin.gif

http://files.ge/file/118952/Modest-Mouse---bukowski-mp3.html


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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 20:14  #8292671      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ელფოსტა · ვებგვერდი · icq
Modest Mouse - Bukowski

Woke up this morning and it seemed to me, that every night turns out to be a little bit more like Bukowski. And yeah, I know he's a pretty good read.
But God who'd wanna be? God who'd wanna be such an asshole? God who'd wanna be? God who'd wanna be such an asshole?


deka136


დამსწარი smile.gif

QUOTE
Waking Life

up.gif

This post has been edited by Facet on 26 Jan 2008, 20:16


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წევრი No.: 10877
რეგისტრ.: 17-June 05

გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 20:18  #8292718      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ელფოსტა · ვებგვერდი · yim
Facet
QUOTE
დამსწარი smile.gif

ოხერი ვარ, ოხერი user.gif

მიყვარს ეგ სიმღერა smile.gif


და Waking Life-ც ძალიან მიყვარს baby.gif

This post has been edited by deka136 on 26 Jan 2008, 20:18
the_lizard_king
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:07  #8294573      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · aim
Remediosi
ახლა გადავიკითხავ smile.gif
deka136
Facet
QUOTE
Modest Mouse - Bukowski

biggrin.gif მაქვს ეს ვეში smile.gif კარგია
QUOTE
Waking Life

მაგარია დეკაჯან, სხვა რამეების ნახე ლინკლეიტერის თუ არ გინახავს

user posted image

Bluebird


There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.


***

8 Count


from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker.


***

For Jane


225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.



baby.gif
Naomi
DECEPTIO VISUS


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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:15  #8294678      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი
მე და რემეს ეს გვიყვარს:

an almost made up poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it's all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I'm not jealous
because we've never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame--not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they've told
us, but listening to you I wasn't sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, "print her, print her, she's mad but she's
magic. there's no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn't happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn't help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I probably would have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.


მიმაგრებული სურათი
Bukovski.JPG


--------------------
Μην ψάχνεις πια αλλού
αφού το ξέρεις ήδη
μην ψάχνεις πια αλλού
εδώ είναι το ταξίδι.
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:21  #8294793      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · aim
Naomi
გენიალურია


ბუკოვსკის აზრი პოეზიის შესახებ:

Я всегда вспоминаю среднюю школу - когда раздавались слова «поэт» или «поэзия», все начинали смеяться и подтрунивать. И я могу объяснить почему, потому что поэзия - это фальшивка. Она слишком переоценена. Это куча хлама. Почти все стихи это чепуха. Это надувательство, подделка.

Но не пойми меня неправильно, было несколько хороших поэтов. Один из них китаец, его звали Ли По. Он мог вложить больше чувств, реальности и переживаний в четыре или пять строчек, в то время как большинству поэтов для этого надо исписать двенадцать или четырнадцать страниц чепухи. И он тоже пил вино. Он клал свои стихи в костер, спускал вниз по реке и пил вино. Императоры любили его, они понимали, что он писал... Конечно, он сжигал только плохие стихи (*смеется*).

Что я пытался сделать, прощу прощения, так это внести частичку жизни рабочего с фабрики... вопящая жена, когда он возвращается домой... реальности существования каждого... то, что так редко рассматривается в стихах. Так и запиши, что я говорю - поэзия это дерьмо, позорище.





This post has been edited by the_lizard_king on 26 Jan 2008, 23:24
mgeli
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:31  #8294939      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ვებგვერდი · aim · msn
მიყვარს მაგ კაცი smile.gif

A poem is a city
a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter…
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows…

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world…

and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor’s scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.


--------------------
Cuius testiculos habes, habeas cardia et cerebellum.
Грузинский тореадор, чтобы не терять времени, сразу колет быка шампурами.
LilacWine
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:39  #8295043      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ელფოსტა
ბარბეტ შროდერსაც უყვარდა ბუკოვსკი, დამწყები რეჟისორი და მისი ოპერატორი ყოველ შაბათ-კვირა დღეს ჰენრის და ლინდას ბაღში ატარებდა, დიდი რაოდენობით ალკოჰოლის და ნიკოტინის თანხლებით ბარბეტი ბუკოვსკის ცხოვრებას იკვლევდა, ოპერატორი კი ამ საუბრებს ფირზე იწერდა.. ამ ალკოჰოლით გაბრუებული საუბრების შედეგად 4 საათიანი დოკუმენტური ფილმი, Charles Bukowski Tapes Volume 1 და Volume 2 გამოვიდა..
პატარა ნაწყვეტი: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8KJiay6EI0
უუუკვე კარგი ხნის მერე, ბარბეტი ისევ გამოჩნდა ბუკოვსკების ოჯახში და ბიოგრაფიული ფილმისთვის სცენარის დაწერა მოთხოვა ჰენრი ჩარლზ ბუკოვსკის, 1987 წელს გამოვიდა ფილმი Barfly. მიკი რურკი ახალგაზრდა ბუკოვსკის და ფეი დანაუეი მისი ასევე ოდნავ გიჟი და ალკოჰოლიკი საყვარლის როლში.
ტრეილერი: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrpTDaSjfaM
და ბოლოს, 2003-ში გამოდის ინფორმაციულად და ვიზუალურად ყველაზე დასრულებული დოკუმენტური ფილმი ბუკოვსკიზე , Bukowski: Born Into This.
აქ ბუკოვსკის ცოლი , მეგობრები და თაყვანისმცემლები იხსენებენ ეპიზოდებს ჰენკის ცხოვრებიდან.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRc6mHS9PjE

ატვირთვა ძალიან გამიძნელდება, ამიტომ უყურეთ აქ:
Bukowski: Born Into This 1
Bukowski: Born Into This 2
Bukowski: Born Into This 3
Bukowski: Born Into This 4
Bukowski: Born Into This 5

user posted image
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:45  #8295123      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ვებგვერდი
LilacWine
შონ პენი და ბონო გაიჩითნენ პირველივე კადრებში, კარგი რამ იქნება. smile.gif
ეხ.


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No alarms and no surprises, please...
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:48  #8295155      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · aim
LilacWine
დიდი მადლობა, ჩემთან ჭედავს და ვერ ვუყურებ, მაგრამ ტორენტებზე მოვიძიებ smile.gif


This post has been edited by the_lizard_king on 26 Jan 2008, 23:49
Remediosi
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გამოგზავნილია: 26 Jan 2008, 23:57  #8295289      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · ვებგვერდი
Naomi
QUOTE
მე და რემეს ეს გვიყვარს:

an almost made up poem


smile.gif 2kiss.gif Some things never change.
the_lizard_king
Super Crazy Member ++


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გამოგზავნილია: 28 Jan 2008, 13:09  #8309190      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი · aim
gigi.gif


მიმაგრებული სურათი
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გამოგზავნილია: 19 Feb 2008, 11:57  #8580548      · პროფილი · პირადი მიმოწერა · ჩატი
ცუდ ხასიათზე ვარ და დავიწყე ნოველებით
The Confession of a Coward,
The Most Beautiful Woman In Town,
A Lovely Love Affair...

მომწონს...

ორიგინალში განსაკუთრებით yes.gif


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Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.
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