Jabberwocky
Frumious Bandersnatch
One of my favorites from Bro-kowski, it really sucks you into his world, great imagery. I transcribed myself in a rush, sorry if the formatting is poor, I am borderline illiterate.
total madness by Charles Bukowski
alright, I know that you're tired of hearing it
but how about this one last time?
all those tiny rooms in all those cities,
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were
it was the same any place and every place,
thousands and thousands of miles spent
looking out the window of a Greyhound bus
listening to them talk, looking at them,
their heads, their ears, the way they walked.
these were strangers from elsewhere,
lifeless parallel perpendiculars,
they drove the blade through my gut,
even the lovely girls,
with guile of eye,
with the lilt and magic of their bodies
were only a down payment on mirage;
life's cheap trick.
I went from room to room,
from city to city,
hiding, looking, waiting...
for what?
for nothing but the irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like them.
I loved those old rooms,
the worn rugs,
the walk down the hall
to the bathroom,
even the rats
and the mice
and the roaches
were comrades.
and along the way
somehow I discovered
the classical composers.
I had an old record player,
and rather than eat
I used what funds I had
for cheap wine and
record albums.
and I rolled cigarettes,
smoked, drank,
listened to music in the dark.
I remember one particular night
when Wagner really lifted
the ceiling off of my room
I got up out of bed
joy-stricken,
I stood there and lifted
both arms towards the ceiling
and I caught the sight of
myself in the dresser mirror
and there was nothing left of me,
a skeleton of a man,
down from 200 pounds to
130,
with sunken cheeks.
I saw this dead skull
looking at me
and it was so ridiculous and so lovely
that I started to laugh
and the thing in the mirror
laughed back
and it got
funnier and funnier
as I lifted my arms
higher toward the ceiling.
and along with those old rooms,
I was lucky,
I had gentle old landladies,
with pictures of Christ along the stairways
but they were always nice
in spite of that.
"Mr Chinaski, your rent is over due, are you all right?"
"oh, yes, thank you"
"I hear your music playing
all the time, night and day,
you sit in your room night
and day with all the shades
pulled down...
are you alright?"
"I'm a writer."
"a writer?"
"yes, I just went something
to the New Yorker.
I'm sure I'll be hearing from
them any day now."
somehow, if you tell people
you are a writer
they will put up with all sorts of excuses
especially if you are in your early twenties.
later on, it's a hard sell
as I was to find out.
but I loved all those
small rooms in all of
those cities with all
of those landladies
and Brahms
and Sebelius
and Shostakovich
and Eric Coats
and Sir Edward Elgar
and the Chopin Etudes
and Borodin
Beethoven,
Hayden,
Handel,
Mussorgsky
etc.
now, somehow, after
decades of those rooms
and half-assed barren jobs
and after tossing out
nearly 40 or 50 pounds of rejection;
manuscripts
I still return to a small room here,
to recount to you
once more
the wonder of my madness
then.
the difference now being
that while my writing hasn't
changed that much,
my luck
has.
and it was in those rooms,
in the half drunken light of
some 4 a.m.
a shrunken man upon the
shelf of nowhere,
was young enough to
then,
remain young
forever.
rooms of glory.
total madness by Charles Bukowski
alright, I know that you're tired of hearing it
but how about this one last time?
all those tiny rooms in all those cities,
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were
it was the same any place and every place,
thousands and thousands of miles spent
looking out the window of a Greyhound bus
listening to them talk, looking at them,
their heads, their ears, the way they walked.
these were strangers from elsewhere,
lifeless parallel perpendiculars,
they drove the blade through my gut,
even the lovely girls,
with guile of eye,
with the lilt and magic of their bodies
were only a down payment on mirage;
life's cheap trick.
I went from room to room,
from city to city,
hiding, looking, waiting...
for what?
for nothing but the irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like them.
I loved those old rooms,
the worn rugs,
the walk down the hall
to the bathroom,
even the rats
and the mice
and the roaches
were comrades.
and along the way
somehow I discovered
the classical composers.
I had an old record player,
and rather than eat
I used what funds I had
for cheap wine and
record albums.
and I rolled cigarettes,
smoked, drank,
listened to music in the dark.
I remember one particular night
when Wagner really lifted
the ceiling off of my room
I got up out of bed
joy-stricken,
I stood there and lifted
both arms towards the ceiling
and I caught the sight of
myself in the dresser mirror
and there was nothing left of me,
a skeleton of a man,
down from 200 pounds to
130,
with sunken cheeks.
I saw this dead skull
looking at me
and it was so ridiculous and so lovely
that I started to laugh
and the thing in the mirror
laughed back
and it got
funnier and funnier
as I lifted my arms
higher toward the ceiling.
and along with those old rooms,
I was lucky,
I had gentle old landladies,
with pictures of Christ along the stairways
but they were always nice
in spite of that.
"Mr Chinaski, your rent is over due, are you all right?"
"oh, yes, thank you"
"I hear your music playing
all the time, night and day,
you sit in your room night
and day with all the shades
pulled down...
are you alright?"
"I'm a writer."
"a writer?"
"yes, I just went something
to the New Yorker.
I'm sure I'll be hearing from
them any day now."
somehow, if you tell people
you are a writer
they will put up with all sorts of excuses
especially if you are in your early twenties.
later on, it's a hard sell
as I was to find out.
but I loved all those
small rooms in all of
those cities with all
of those landladies
and Brahms
and Sebelius
and Shostakovich
and Eric Coats
and Sir Edward Elgar
and the Chopin Etudes
and Borodin
Beethoven,
Hayden,
Handel,
Mussorgsky
etc.
now, somehow, after
decades of those rooms
and half-assed barren jobs
and after tossing out
nearly 40 or 50 pounds of rejection;
manuscripts
I still return to a small room here,
to recount to you
once more
the wonder of my madness
then.
the difference now being
that while my writing hasn't
changed that much,
my luck
has.
and it was in those rooms,
in the half drunken light of
some 4 a.m.
a shrunken man upon the
shelf of nowhere,
was young enough to
then,
remain young
forever.
rooms of glory.
