Bukowski Wednesdays: To The Whore Who Took My Poems

We enjoy poetry here at Milk & Weed. We want to inject more poetry into your existence in order to nourish your spirit. We also want to provide you to finish off the rest of the week with a new perspective. Wednesdays are now Bukowski Wednesdays and you’re going to love it. We will post poetry that you didn’t ready in middle school. Don’t read them once; make sure to swallow every phrase and every word. If you get anything from poetry may it be an understanding of someone else’s experience–maybe we all can learn something new.

To The Whore Who Took My Poems by Charles Bukowski

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn’t you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I’m not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won’t be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there’ll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

 

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