One of the most famous winos of all time, poet and writer Charles Bukowski, wasn’t shy about his drinking, gambling or skirt chasing. Many a poem and short story discuss his adventures while drunk, most of the time on wine. We found in our archives an old Peter Vella box containing Bukowski’s lost poems; the ones he wrote shortly before his death in March of 1994. By the sounds of it he maybe had an assistant or his wife Linda typing them for him. Please enjoy the national treasures.
There once was a kitty named Clarence
He was beat by one of his parents
He grew up sad
Murdered his dad
And now he, ah fuck it I think I lost it man.
I see you there, little dress, being all cool calm and collective
You can trick all those other men, but not me sister
Your tits almost popping out of the …You think it’s OK I say tits here?
I mean it’s a little rough I know, but I think it really hits the spot. You know?
What? No! Don’t put this part in the poem damnit! Are you drunk? Fuck, No! Stop typ…
Is anybody really from Nantucket
That city is is only in limericks.
Does anybody really try there?
You see what I did there?
Because it always rhymes with “Fuck it” in the Limerick. And when people don’t try they say “Fuck it.”
Maybe I still got it.
Well I just got into town about an hour ago
Take a look around see which way the wind blow
Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the city of lights?
Or just another lost angel?
City of night, city of night
City of night, city of night, woo! C’mon
Beans beans the magical fruit
The more you eat the more you nearly shit your pants every three minutes