Yeah, that guy.
When I first read Charles Bukowski, I must not have been in the proper mindset to really appreciate where he was coming from. I liked it but...it wasn't a big deal. Yet, I knew people who raved over his work, who felt compelled to have lunches at hotel pools, slugging back cheap beer reading his poems. I'm not kidding! I remember a conversation with a record exec for a metal label while he was passing the time doing just this. Now, though, I totally dig his poetry, though I've yet to read his fiction--I will rectify this at some point. But with the poetry, and really getting it, oh yes, getting it to the core, I love his words, perspectives, observations. Raw to the nerve and dipped in battery acid truths. Unflinching, the way I like to approach my fiction writing...and my poetry as well.
Yes, I write poetry, too. I've mentioned it before, but it's been awhile.
So, last year about this time, actually, it was 12-24 as I check my notes, I was sitting in a cafe and I wrote a poem inspired by Hank entitled, rather appropriately, "Merry Christmas, Bukowski." Though I don't write like him, it's perhaps got that vibe, that casual, world-messed-up-but-getting by kind of vibe. That grinding-through-to-the-other-side kinda vibe. That pass-me-another-shot-and-wait-just-leave-the-bottle kind of...er...vibe.
Well, you be the judge. Here's that poem.
***
Merry
Christmas, Bukowski
By
John Claude Smith
I
don’t find Christmas music cheerful
as I sit in the empty cafe
“less talk, more music”
I wish the DJ and the music
would be
stricken with silence
my chai black tea grown cold
shake the snow globe,
pour the snow in the glass mug
The twelve days of Christmas
up to nine
my desire to shoot Santa
the reindeer
and the composer of this
faux masterpiece
The manager speaks in her
native tongue
(she said once her name was unpronounceable
though she goes by Tracy)
“Tracy,” I say, raising my
eyes from
the aching sprawl of words
“Could we lose the music?”
“Are you a scrooge, Mr. John?”
she asks
pasting a too quick smile
on her otherwise pleasant
face
I pause to consider my
limited options as response
and put on my “well, you’ve nailed me
with your spiffy observation, dear,” smile
and turn back to these
crowded pages
I pull out my flask and add a
little Christmas cheer
my own lubricated Carol
to warm things up
the chai black tea grown cold
thinking
if she cut out the horrendously cheerful music
perhaps she’d get some customers
Ho ho fuckin’ ho
Transported Beyond the Genre
“These stories, horrific and disturbing as they are, transport the
reader far beyond the horror genre. Every story here has such depth and
feeling, each could easily serve as the subject of an entire novel. The prose
is fraught with emotion, the intensity of the writing is enough in itself to
leave you breathless. Whether you are into the horror genre or not, you will be
mesmerized by these little masterpieces.”
and
"Smith's anthology isn't for the sensitive or the faint-hearted. Many of the stories are edgy, working on concepts and thoughts that all us adults are familiar with, but rarely talk about. Smith isn't being quirky, or finding satisfaction in the gory, sexually perverse or the profane. No, he is writing this stuff because it unbalances the reader. Disturbs. Sometimes frightens - the essence of what quality horror/dark fantasy is all about. And he does it admirably, especially for a debut title."
Oh, my! I am humbled and honored to have touched both of those readers in such a way. And quite appreciative of their kind words and observations. The second snippet is from a long, intense and thought-provoking review that will probably get the full blog treatment, though you can check them both out and more on the amazon link below. Actually, here's the whole rollcall of avenues one can purchase the book.
Amazon.co.uk
Barnes & Noble:
OmniLit:
Amazon Germany:
Amazon France:
...and here's the grizzled old geezer in his environment, well, guzzling the liquid ambience to assist him in attaining his proper environment.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
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