One of my all-time favourite literary heroes is Charles Bukowski. Admittedly, my affection for his work is somewhat biased by the connection that his cynicism creates with me (I can be a pretty grumpy guy at times). But whether you’re down in the dumps, or having the best time of your life, I guarantee that Bukowski has woven a few words that you can relate too.
Charles Bukowski used his words to depict the downtrodden side of American culture. His writings feature unglamorous factory workers, postmen, and drunks, yet his dynamic writing style fills these mundane characters with their own quirky charisma. A large body of his work is semi-autobiographical, featuring fictional stories that are loosely based around his exploits working in low paid jobs, and often focusing on his infamous alcohol abuse. He seems to take care to paint a portrait of himself that is far from boastful, yet never too condemning – no man could describe himself as a mean drunk but reveal a vulnerable side that creates an overwhelming sense of empathy as well as Bukowski.
If you’re looking for a new great read, I highly recommend picking up a copy of his renowned book – Post Office. Here is one of my favourite Bukowski poems, Two Flies. If you’re a fan of Bukowski, leave a comment down below!
The flies are angry bits of life;
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry
that they are flies;
it is not my fault;
I sit in the room
with them
and they taunt me
with their agony;
it is as if they were
loose chunks of soul
left out of somewhere;
I try to read a paper
but they will not let me
be;
one seems to go in half-circles
high along the wall,
throwing a miserable sound
upon my head;
the other one, the smaller one
stays near and teases my hand,
saying nothing,
rising, dropping
crawling near;
what god puts these
lost things upon me?
other men suffer dictates of
empire, tragic love…
I suffer
insects…
I wave at the little one
which only seems to revive
his impulse to challenge:
he circles swifter,
nearer, even making
a fly-sound,
and one above
catching a sense of the new
whirling, he too, in excitement,
speeds his flight,
drops down suddenly
in a cuff of noise
and they join
in circling my hand,
strumming the base
of the lampshade
until some man-thing
in me
will take no more
unholiness
and I strike
with the rolled-up-paper –
missing! –
striking,
striking,
they break in discord,
some message lost between them,
and I get the big one
first, and he kicks on his back
flicking his legs
like an angry whore,
and I come down again
with my paper club
and he is a smear
of fly-ugliness;
the little one circles high
now, quiet and swift,
almost invisible;
he does not come near
my hand again;
he is tamed and
inaccessible; I leave
him be, he leaves me
be;
the paper, of course,
is ruined;
something has happened,
something has soiled my
day,
sometimes it does not
take man
or a woman,
only something alive;
I sit and watch
the small one;
we are woven together
in the air
and the living;
it is late
for both of us.