| Title | : | Love Is a Dog from Hell |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0876853629 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780876853627 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 312 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1977 |
Charles Bukowski was a man of intense emotions, someone an editor once called a “passionate madman.” Alternating between tough and gentle, sensitive and gritty, Bukowski lays bare the myriad facets of love—its selfishness and its narcissism, its randomness, its mystery and its misery, and, ultimately, its true joyfulness, endurance, and redemptive power.
Love Is a Dog from Hell Reviews
-
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
Love him or hate him, Charles Bukowski was a bitter, drunken asshole with a gift for putting onto paper all the ugliness and baseness hiding in the human heart. Before jumping into the discovery and thoughts that are the inspiration for this ramble about the dirty old writer, a few moments should be spent on the actual poetry found in this volume. I’ve always enjoyed the earlier Bukowski, before he became too jaded and bitter and let a few really tender moments flower within all the crassness. Love, and more specifically the failures and loss of it, are the heart of this collection. All through the poems here are allusions to the ‘red haired woman’, whom Bukowski shows a deep regret in loosing. Much of the crassness feels reactionary to this loss of love as Bukowski documents a spiral into dirty, drunken debauchery and madness as a method of hardening the heart against such pains. Love is replaced with lust to erase loneliness, yet, ironically, it only instills further self-hatred and builds towards a crippling loneliness.there is always one woman
to save you from another
and as that woman saves you
she makes ready to
destroy.
Bukowski is that drunk asshole always diving to the bottom of a glass, keeping shallow relationships and never trusting women. He is, at best, a rude misogynist, but under the layers of dysphemism, we see a heart drowning in sorrow (and booze). There is still some charm though, he is often humorous in his crassness, and there are moments where he truly shows remorse for the terrible manner in which human beings treat one another. He
did not really like people, probably a lot of that having to do with his fear of being hurt by others. His poetry is rather simple, nothing complex to pick apart, and very rarely uses many poetic devices, but that is what makes it so powerful. It cuts right to the heart. He often describes the writing process as pounding the keys like a prizefighter, and often refers to his typewriter as his 'piano' (Bukowski was a huge fan of classical music, especially Brahms, and compares music and writing often).
This collection contains a poem that not only introduced me to
Knut Hamsun (who is now one of my favorite authors), but I’ve always kept in mind as a darkly comical motivation for being a writer:How to be a Good Writer
you've got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don't worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible
learning to win is hard -
any slob can be a good loser.
and don't forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don't overexercise.
sleep until moon.
avoid paying credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn't a piece of ass
in this world over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong -
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient -
time is everybody's cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continuous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you think they didn't go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you're doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you're not ready.
drink more beer.
there's time.
and if there's not
that's all right
too.
While looking to find more references to Hamsun in this collection, I noticed that within the margins, my own handwriting was mixed with that of another’s. It turns out that one of my closest friends, a friend I have not seen in years and have been separated from by the circumstances of life that separate even the closest of people, had gone through this book and left me all sorts of comments for me to think about, as well as comment upon my own reaction. It was like having a conversation across 3 years time with an old friend, the type of friend that is more like a brother. The power of language and writing seemed more important than ever suddenly, as it is a tool tying people together across space and time. This particular collection couldn’t be more fitting to find these notes written years earlier (I have a few other books where we both wrote notes to each other, such as Thus Spoke Zarathustra which we were both reading at the same time while he was our ‘guy on couch’ at an old apartment), both with Bukowski’s discussions of loneliness, but as it was indicative of my current state at that time. A few years ago was a bit of a darker period where the group of us had close ties and stayed rather under the radar of society. I would go to class, return to our apartment and we would spend all our time playing music, drinking and discussing film and books. This was a bitter period, as I had been in that post-heartbreak stage where the world seems ugly and, like Bukowski, just wanted to revel in my bitterness for awhile. Finding these notes brings back only the happy memories of those times and makes you realize that the loss of someone you loved as a brother is far more important to you than the loss of any former lover, and these are the people you miss most down the line in the birth pangs of some lonely, introspective morning. This all reminds me very much of the Savage Detectives and that sadness of people spreading out across the map as friendships rust and wash away in the changing tides.
What struck me most was his notes about the sadness that permeates this collection. In one margin is written: ‘Bukowski seems genuinely troubled/depressed by the imagery of failed relationships and their aftermath – the failings of love and the intended + unintended ways we hurt one another’. That more or less sums this book up. I also enjoyed moments where he circled lines such as ‘oh brothers, we are the sickest and lowest of the breed’, which summed up that summer we all spent together in our tiny, dirty Ypsilanti apartment. He was also kind enough to highlight every mention of the ‘redhead’ and string together the story that is told through fragments.
Enough of that emotional reflection though, nobody likes that sort of stuff. Which leads me to a quote from Neil Young (my favorite, and it pains me to be referencing such an obvious song instead of some lesser-known greater one) that ‘every junky is like a setting sun’. They are on their way out, difficult, if not painful, to look right at, yet beautiful. Bukowski fits this bill, as his life and works are painful to watch, but there is some beauty in there. Also like a setting sun, people like this aren’t something you can hang around long or you will get hurt (or loose your vision if you stare at the sun too long!). This is a messy metaphor, but I swear it’s going somewhere. Poems like those of Bukowski, or people who fit this bill such as drinking buddies, are good for certain times and places, however, you can’t linger there. When you are feeling dirty and ugly and crass, Bukowski is wonderful fun. Works like his are empowering at those times because you can relate and laugh along with, and, primarily, because it is reassuring to see that others with this same ugliness are able to create something beautiful. Once you’ve had your fill though, the time comes to move forward, as this sort of ugliness can only lead to more ugliness and eventually it will fill you and drag you down with it. These types of works are very reactionary, only as a venomous bite toward what hurts you and not a truly constructive method of moving on. The mid to late 2000s was full of this sort of behavior, look at the emo culture, where people wanted to express their disdain for the world around them (the emo culture did it with more self loathing and tears, whereas something like Bukowski is more about pushing someone away through acting depraved and hard when you actually truly want them to get close to you). However, we can’t always be angry and we have to move on, get over our problems, or they win. They become us. We can’t be simply made up of only our failures and sadness, we must learn to deal with them, get past them, and win by being stronger than our problems.
I tend to rag on Chuck Palahniuk a lot, but he really fits this idea for me, and if I can quickly explain it, perhaps I won’t have to keep using him as an example anymore. His works were very popular in the era mentioned above (okay, I know Bukowski wasn’t writing then, but this has transcended Bukowski’s works into a discussion about getting over problems), because they were a gripe against social forces. Chuck P. took hold of many adolescents through writing stories with adults who are characterized like angsty teenagers. They view the world and societal constructs as threatening, as something holding them down, and turn to nihilism to deal with that. However, nihilism will only negate things, it won’t transcend them. I lost interest in Palahniuk once I realized that he would never offer a true solution to the problems he imposes on his characters (as well as simply recycling characters and techniques, but that is a different discussion). I couldn’t wallow in his cynicism and darkness any longer, and turned to bigger, better and brighter authors. I have never looked back. Yet, I can’t condemn him entirely, because he fit my 17 year old needs for awhile. I enjoyed Fight Club at the time, Choke made me laugh, and sometimes it is good to wallow in the ugliness. But stay to long and the pity-party, because that is all it really is, becomes sad and pathetic.
All in all, I’m glad I’ve read Bukowski, but I feel like my life has taken me places where his opinions no longer really reach me. I can’t wallow in that sadness, and I find his lusts rather creepy and his woman-bashing rather offensive. However, that is exactly what he was striving for. Still, those moments of beauty are worth coming back for, and I can’t express enough how cool it was to find the notes from my friend. Mostly, being able to reminisce about those days of stupid, wild youth is what really holds my heart.
3.5/5
Okay, and
this poem, Dinosauria, We is great (although not from this collection)
-
Don't tell me I don't get it. I know I probably don't. But Jesus Christ, if I have to read one more poem about the women he's screwed and the women who've screwed him, I'm going to start writing my own collection of poetry about the cereal I eat in the morning and try to publish that.
Granted, I am not a great lover of poetry. And I have very low tolerance for people who want to eloquently bemoan about their shitty lives without seemingly caring to get their shit together. Honestly, I'm not really sure why I picked this book up - somewhere hidden away in the back of my mind was the voice telling me I wouldn't like it. But every once in a while I get a hankering for poetry, for the streamlined and condensed collection of ideas, words or imagery they provide. And I read a Bukowski poem I liked once. Something about a car going down the street or something, I don't know. So I thought I'd give it a chance.
So yeah, I just don't get Bukowski, I guess. And honestly, I sometimes think I'm predisposed to not like him because of a certain type of Bukowski-lovers I encountered during college - people who were cooler than me and knew it, who silently smoked clove cigarettes, and refused to be aware of anything pop culture related past the 1960's. I pick up Bukowski now and I'm instantaneously reminded of this exclusive group of individuals who were gifted in amplifying my own insecurities. It's like this embarrassing Pavlovian reaction, inciting a domino of emotions - first my self esteem dips, then I get depressed, then I get irritated for getting depressed, and then I just get shifty-eyed and distrusting of my own feelings and wonder if I need a therapist.
Kidding. Kind of. Just don't make me read him anymore, okay? -
الألم زهرة
الألم زهور.
تتفتّح كل الوقت.
...
ويبدو أن الألم كان محرك بوكوفسكي الأول
وإن كان اختار التعبير عنه
بطريقة ساخرة .. مجنونة
مثله تماما
----------------------------
الثورات الحقيقية
تنبع من القرف الحقيقي
حين تسوء الأمور كفاية تقتل الهررة الأسد.
::::::::::::::::
المنطقة التي تفصل الدماغ عن الروح
تتأثّر بالتجربة بشتّى الطرق
بعضهم يفقد عقله ويصبح روحًا:
المجنون.
بعضهم يفقد روحه ويصبح عقلًا:
المثقّف.
بعضهم يفقد الاثنين:
المقبول اجتماعيًّا
::::::::::::::::
أن يموت المرء على أرضية المطبخ عند السابعة صباحا
بينما الآخرون يقلون البيض
ليس بالأمر شديد القسوة
إلا إذا حدث لك.
::::::::::::::::
المثقفة
تكتب باستمرار
كخرطوم طويل
يدهن ال��واء،
وتجادل باستمرار؛
لا شيء مما يمكن أن أقوله
إلا ويعني شيئاً آخر،
لذا، أتوقف عن القول؛
وأخيراً
تتجادل ونفسها
خارج الباب
قائلة شيئاً من نوع
لست أحاول
ترك انطباع حسن
لديك عني.
::::::::::::::::
مأساة العشب
أفقتُ على الجفاف وكانت السراخس ميتة،
النباتات التي في القدور الفخارية صفراء كالذرة؛
امرأتي رحلت
والزجاجات الفارغة تحاصرني، كجثث مدمّاة،
بلاجدواها؛
كانت الشمس لا تزال تسطع مع ذلك
وملحوظة صاحبة البيت تكسّرت في اصفرار مناسب
غير متطلّب؛ أكثر ما كنت بحاجة اليه وقتذاك
كوميدي جيد، من الأسلوب القديم، مهرّج
يحمل نكاتاً على ألم مجرّد؛ الألم مجرّد
لأنه موجود، لا أكثر؛
حلقتُ، بشفرة قديمة، وبحذر
ذقن الرجل الذي كان يافعا ذات مرة وقيل
إنه عبقري؛
لكنها مأساة العشب،
السراخس الميتة، النباتات الميتة؛
وعبرتُ الردهة ا��معتمة
حيث تقف صاحبة البيت
لاعنةً ومرسلة إياي، أخيراً،
إلى الجحيم،
ملوّحة بذراعيها السمينتين المعرّقتين
وصارخة
صارخة تطالب بالإيجار
لأن العالم خذلنا
نحن الإثنين.
-
Bukowski Rebuttal
by Julie Grippo
You carved the ladies up into some fine cuts of meat,
didn't you, Charles?
Created a real charcuterie here:
loins, belly, butt,
shoulder, shank, cunt. . .
(but, I notice, never a head).
Off with their heads! I think you said.
Well, unless the mouth is needed as a blow hole,
then we all know, otherwise,
only a place for an apple.
You never went for the prized pigs,
though, did you, Charles?
Never went for the blue ribbon winners
who might have called your bluff.
Not always the stuff
of fairy tales, was it?
You say you're “one more creature dizzy with love,”
tell me you are a good man!
Yet you fuck the “old women in high heels,”
the stranger with crooked teeth at the bus stop,
then the lonely one with “panties indented”
in her sad crotch.
(Your habits never went up a notch).
It wasn't long before I tired of the light meat,
the dark meat, the empty stare, the yellow hair,
the up and down of heels and height.
None of it was ever right for me.
You tell me “all I've ever known are whores,”
You wonder if you have my sympathy.
I look at the back of the book, at the photo of you,
and see nothing but a troll.
I couldn't dislike these poems more. -
ليس هناك ما هو أسوأ من فوات الاوان
ما ندركه بعد فوات الاوان يقتلنا تدريجيا
يغرق ايامنا في ضباب من الأخطاء المتكررة
هذا ما وصلني من كلمات الشاعر الامريكي المشاكس بوكوفسكي و هو المعادل لاحمد فؤاد نجم عندنا
طبعا الكل يعلم موقفي السلبي الابدى من الشعر..و مادمت قد اكملت الكتاب فهذه شهادة مني بان المكتوب ليس شعرا
و بالنسبة لي الشعر لا يترجم لذا اطلعت على الاصل الانجليزي وجدته ليس شعرا تقليديا ايضا
*
هي نثريات موقفية متناثرة عبر أعوام عديدة توضح مواقف تشارلز الباترة من : العلاقات. .الابوة..الشيخوخة..الاخطاء..الموت
و لا توجد.قصيدة تحمل اسم الحب كلب من الجحيم و هو سبب قراءة ثلثي القراء لهذا الكتاب حتما
و لكن لنتذكر دوما
ان الثورات الحقيقية تنبع من القرف الحقيقي
حين تسوء الامور كفاية
تقتل الهررة الاسد -
Love Is a Dog From Hell, Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920, Andernach, Germany - March 9, 1994, San Pedro Peninsula Hospital) was a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural, and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.
Love Is a Dog from Hell (first published 1977) is a collection of Bukowski's poetry from the mid-seventies. A classic in the Bukowski canon, Love Is a Dog from Hell is a raw, lyrical, exploration of the exigencies, heartbreaks, and limits of love.
“there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.”.
عنوانهای چاپ شده در ایران: «عشق، سگی جهنمی»؛ «عشق سگی ست از جهنم»؛ «عشق سگی است دربان جهنم عاشقانه های چارلز بوکوفسکی»؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز دهم ماه دسامبر سال2006میلادی
عنوان: عشق، سگی جهنمی؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ مترجمها: نشمیل سپهری، بابک غفاری؛ تهران نشمیل سپهری: بابک غفاری؛ سال1385؛ در145ص؛ شابک9640688746؛ موضوع شعرهای نویسندگان آلمان تبار ایالات متحده آمریکا - سده20م
عنوان: عشق سگی ست از جهنم؛ نویسنده: چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ مترجم مهیار مظلومی؛ در348ص؛
عنوان: عشق سگی است دربان جهنم عاشقانه های چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ شاعر چارلز بوکوفسکی؛ گردآوری و برگردان عليرضا بهنام؛ تهران سرزمین اهورایی، سال1395 (1397)؛ در83ص (76ص)؛ شابک9786006792781؛
سرودهایی عاشقانه از روانشاد «چارلز بوکوفسکی» است؛ «چارلز» انسانی سرسخت، و سازش ناپذیر، در تاریخ ادبیات «آمریکا» بودند، فردی رها که همین رهایی و ناپایبندی را، میتوان در سروده های ایشان نیز شنید و خواند؛ «بوکوفسکی» نگاهی دیگر به عشق داشته اند، که از کارهای خودشان سرچشمه میگرفت، ایشان با نگاهی تلخ، و انکار گرایانه، به گفتار و نوشتارهای خویشتن میپرداختند، و از هیچ یک از سنتهای موجود ادبی کشورشان، پشتیبانی نمیکردند، به همین برهان تا مدتها، از راهیابی به آنتولوژیهای ادبیات کنونی آمریکا، باز مانده بودند؛ اما در پایان با کسب شهرت در اروپا، و به ویژه در «آلمان»، جایگاه خود را در ادبیات «آمریکا» نیز پایدار کردند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 03/06/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 18/02/1401هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی -
First published in 1977, Love Is a Dog from Hell is a collection of Bukowski's poetry from the mid-seventies. A classic in the Bukowski canon, Love Is a Dog from Hell is a raw, lyrical, exploration of the exigencies, heartbreaks, and limits of love.
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous
because we’ve never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame—not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ve told
us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “print her, print her, she’s mad but she’s
magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
- An Almost Made Up Poem
-
…?
-
okay Bukowski we get it you're horny, lonely, misogynistic and a pedophile, is there something else you wanted to convey with this book ?
oh yeah you also take an unreasonable amount of shits a day (or at least you talk about it continuously). but hey, who am I to judge ? -
قراءة خاصة بالنسخة المترجمة
كنت قد قرأت النصوص المترجمة هنا (مختارات) من عدة مجموعات شعرية وكنت قدر صرّحت من قبل من عدم ميلي القرائي للمختارات فليس ثمة توافق بيني وبينها على صعيد النتاج الشرقي.
ذلك أنني أطرب لقراءة الديوان الصادر وفق المرحلة الزمنية مثلما فعلت مع نتاج دنقل وقباني والثبيتي وبوكوفسكي – رغم عدم وصولي لها كلها لكني حرصت على قراءة الإصدارات المتتالية وفق سلمها الزمني – وكذلك مع آرثر رامبو، وبوشكين ، وطاغور – ما ترجم من شعره عربيًا – بينما هنا مختارات قام المترجم بإنتقاء (5) مجموعات من أشهر ما كتب بوكوفسي وعلى إمتداد مرحلة تجاوزت الـ(44) عام من الكتابة الشعرية.
"بيت ترجمتي (زياد عبد الله :المتوسط)، و(سامر أبو هواش : الجمل) لقصائد مشابهة. من الترجمة الحديثة في الألفية الحالية ترجمة سامر أبو هواش خصوصًا لبعض مجموعة ديوان :
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame
وقصائد من ديوان :
It Catches My Heart in Its Hands
كنت قد قرأت قصائد تشابه إختيارها بين ترجمتي زياد وأبوهواش، ورغم جمال ترجمة هواش عندما قرأت بعض النصوص المترجمة بلغتها الأم أقول أنه حافظ على الجوهر أي معنى النص وليس مجرد ترجمة حرفية فتلك عقبة سيحاسب عليها فهذا شعر. لكنه أقول تجاوزها بإحترافية جميلة وخانه كثيرًا أن يهبنا (روح) النص حيث لم يوفّق أحيان كثيرة في (قفلة) القصيدة رغم أنها أمام عينيه في النص الأصل فلماذا تمكّن من ذلك (زياد عبد الله) مع تقديري لهما معًا؟. ربما هو المخزون اللغوي وقوة الإطلاع على "ثقافة اللغة" للغة المترجمة لها – العربية – دون المطالبة بإمتلاك المترجم لموهبة الشعر ليصبح لديه ذلك الحس مثلما فعل مترجمو رباعيات الخيام الذي كان (90%) منهم شعراء عظام وموهبون بالفطرة.
يكفي عندما تشاهد عنوان مجموعة في ترجمات زياد هكذا (محترقًا في الماء.. غارقًا في اللهب) بينما عند أو هواش (الاحتراق في المياه، الغرق في النار) أن تعي مدى الجملة الموسيقية في ترجمة زياد ولك أن تخمّن كيف ستكون بقية الترجمة علي مستوي بقية المختارات، ولا نغفل أن ثمة قصائد في كلا الترجمتين مثل ( إلى مارلين / العاهرة التي سرقت قصائدي / حال العالم / أبي / الحب والشهرة والموت / جانب من الشمس....) وغيرها الكثير من القصائد التي يمكنك من خلالها مشاهدت الفرق بين الترجمات رغم جمالهما معًا إلا شعرية ترجمة زياد أعظم وتستحق القراءة وتكرار الترجمة لنصوص جديدة.
وفق اللغة الإنجليزية الإحتراق في النار والغرق في اللهب هو فعل مستمر لم ينتهي ولهذا ترجمة “زياد” ((محترقًا في الماء.. غارقًا في اللهب)) هي الأنسب بينما عنوان "هواش" ((الاحتراق في المياه، الغرق في النار)) هي ترجمة حرفية لا معنى لها. خالية من الروحة الشعرية.
كانت فكرة كل قصيدة قائمة، وتكاد تشعر بها في كل نص ولربما يظن المترجم والقارئ هنا أن يشعرني أني بوكوفسي حيًا ويكتب لنا نصًا بغتنا العربية.. لا. ليس كذلك ولكن كنت أتمنى ترجمات تشعرني بروح الشعر في ترجمة (أبو هواش) فليس ككاتب ولا كقارئ مطلوب مني إمتداح كل ما أجده في الكتاب ولست كذلك ممن يطالبون بالكامل فذلك وهم.” *
هنا أنا لست ممن يُبْخَسُ المترجم حقه بل ترجمته جميلة وأظن الترجمات الشعرية القادمة ستكون أكثر جمالًآ من هذه التجربة إن شاء الله
ـــــــــ
،
* هذا الجزء من المراجعة وضعته كذلك في مراجعتي لكتاب (محترقًا في الماء.. غارقًا في اللهب) لزياد عبد الله لتشابه فكرتي فيما أود طرحه حول الكتابين.
-
1.5
Charles Bukowski’s poetry is polarizing. You either love it or hate it, and after reading “Love is a Dog from Hell,” I’ve found myself in the latter camp.
Okay, here we go. There are a few different themes Bukowski works with in this collection, but the most prominent theme is how a horny middle-aged man objectifies women through a thick veil of misogyny. He’s often boorish in a creepy, voyeuristic way; the commodification of women and young girls--yup, we get pedophilia here too--is unappealing, to say the least. These poems aren’t engaging for me, and when roughly 85% of the collection is focused solely on this subject, it becomes unimaginably repetitive.
Not all is lost, as there are a few gems sprinkled in. Most of these occur later in the collection, where Bukowski turns an eye to self-reflection and his eventual death. I particularly liked “An Unkind Poem,” “What They Want,” “Soul,” “The Crunch,” and the surprisingly good “Bedpans.” We get some interesting and relatable results when his melancholia and cynicism and loneliness shine through, but these poems are very few and far between, having been lost in the unwieldy mass of the selfsame sexist chauvinism.
I get it. Bukowski has been through some shit and the '70s weren't that great in general, but the majority of these poems have not aged well and his point of view is, frankly, problematic. Is this the zenith of fragile masculinity? Oftentimes it seems that way. If you like crass tirades, then Bukowski’s your guy. He’s just not for me. -
«شعری برای دندان-بدشکل قدیمی»
من زنی را میشناسم،
که مدام پازل میخرد،
پازلهای چینی،
بلوکههای پا��ل چوبی،
پازلهای فلزی،
تکههایی که عاقبت در ترتیب خاصی قرار میگیرند.
به کمک ریاضیات آنها را حل میکند.
همهی پازلها را حل میکند
او در جنوب، نزدیک دریا زندگی میکند
او برای مورچهها شکر میریزد
او کاملا به دنیای بهتری معتقد است
موهایش سفید است و به ندرت آنها را شانه میکند
دندانهایش نامرتباند،
و لباسهای سرهمی شل بیقواره به تن میکند،
آن هم روی بدنی که اکثر زنان آرزوی داشتنش را دارند.
سالها من را با رفتارهای غیر عادیاش آزار داد-
مانند خیساندن پوستهی تخم مرغ در آب- که بعد پای گیاهان بریزد تا
کلسیم به آنها برسد
اما در نهایت وقتی به زندگی او فکر میکنم،
و آن را با زندگیهای با اصالت، متحیر کننده و زیبای بقیه مقایسه میکنم،
در مییابم که او به افراد کمتری آسیب رسانده است
منظورم واقعا صدمه است
او زمانهای سختی در زندگی داشته است،
اوقاتی که شاید من میتوانستم بیشتر کمکش کنم،
زیرا او مادر تنها فرزندم است،
و ما زمانی شیفتهی هم بودیم.
هر چند او بر این سختیها غلبه کرد،
و همان طور که گفتم،
نسبت به کسانی که میشناسم،
به آدمهای کمتری آسیب زد.
اگر این طور به قضیه نگاه کنید،
او برنده است،
و دنیای بهتری را ساخته است
فرنسیس، این شعر برای توست. (فرنسیس اسمیت، 1922-2009، شاعر، مادر تنها دختر و فرزند بوکفسکی، این شعر در خاکسپاری او به عنوان ستایش او خوانده شد.). 75-79 کتاب
«دریا و جزیره را خواهم چشید»
میدانم که به زودی،
شبی،
در تخت خوابی،
انگشتانم در شکنج موهایی نرم و لطیف میلغزد،
و موسیقیای نواخته میشود
که هیچ رادیویی پخش نمیکند.
و همهی غصهها لبخند خواهند زد. ص 91 کتاب
«برای ال»
دوست من،
نگران طرد شدن نباش،
من نیز رانده شدهام.
شاید گاهی به خطا شعری را قبول کنی
من اما بیشتر در نوشتن شعرها به خطا رفتهام.
من دوست دارم در هر مسابقه بیشتر شرط ببندم
حتی زمانی که حد شرط بندی را در صبح، 30 به 1 تعیین کنند
من بیشتر و بیشتر
به مرگ،
کهولت سن،
عصا،
صندلی چرخدار،
و نوشتن شعرهای بنفش با قلمی جوهرچکان،
فکر میکنم،
آن زمان که دختران دیگر در خانهام را نمیکوبند،
دخترانی با دهانهایی شبیه ماهی باراکودا،
با بدنهایی چون درخت لیمو،
بدنهایی چون ابر،
چون صاعقه.
از طرد شدن نهراس دوست من.
امشب 25 سیگار کشیدهام
و آبجو را هم که خودت میدانی.
تلفن هم فقط یک بار زنگ خورد و شماره اشتباهی بود. (ال پردی: شاعر و نویسنده کانادایی). صفحات 105- 106 کتاب
«چگونه نویسندهی بزرگی بشویم»
باید با زنهای زیادی بخوابید.
زنهای زیبا
و چند شعر عالی عاشقانه بنویسید
نگران سن و ظهور استعدادهای جدید نباشید
آبجوی بیشتری بنوشید،
بیشتر و بیشتر.
و حداقل هفتهای یکبار
به مسابقات اسبدوانی بروید،
و در صورت امکان برنده شوید.
اینکه یاد بگیرید برنده شوید کار دشواریست،
چون هر آشغالی میتواند بازنده خوبی باشد.
برامس و باخ و همچنین آبجو را فراموش نکنید.
بیش از حد ورزش نکنید
تا ظهر بخوابید
از کارتهای اعتباری و پرداخت به موقع هر چیزی اجتناب کنید
فراموش نکنید که هیچ باسنی بیشتر از پنجاه دلار نمیارزد (در سال 1977)
و اگر توانایی عشق ورزی دارید،
اول خودتان را دوست بدارید.
همواره آماده پذیرش شکست کامل باشید،
چه دلیل آن موجه یا غیر موجه باشد-
چشیدن زود هنگام طعم مرگ لزوما چیز بدی نیست.
از کلیسا، کاباره و موزه دوری کنید،
و مانند عنکبوت، صبور باشید.
زمان، همه چیز را مصلوب میکند،
و به همین صورت، تبعید، شکست، خیانت، و هر آشغال دیگری.
با آبجو بمانید.
آبجو خون مداوم است.
معشوق مدام.
یک ماشین تحریر بزرگ بخرید.
و مادامی که قدمهای آدمها بیرون پنجرهتان بالا و پایین میرود،
محکم تایپ کنید. محکم.
به یک نزاع سنگین تبدیلش کنید.
چون یک گاو خشمگین که تازه رها شده است.
و پیشکسوتهایی که به خوبی جنگیدند را به یاد داشته باشید:
همینگوی، سلین، داستایوسکی، هامسون.
اگر گمان میکنید که آنها مانند شما،
در اتاقهای کوچک،
بدون زن،
بدون غذا،
بدون امید،
دیوانه نشدند،
پس هنوز آماده نیستید.
بیشتر آبجو بنوشید،
وقتش میرسد
اگر نرسید هم اشکالی ندارد. صفحات 107 تا 109 کتاب
«بهترینها و بدترینها»
بیمارستان و زندان، بدترینند.
تیمارستان، بدترین است.
پنتهاوس، بدترین است.
مسافرخانه ارزان، بدترین است.
جلسه شعرخوانی، بدترین است.
کنسرت راک، بدترین است.
خیریه برای معلولین، بدترین است.
مراسم ختم، بدترین است.
عروسی، بدترین است.
تظاهرات، پیست اسکی، روابط جنسی گروهی، بدترین است.
نصف شب، سه صبح، پنج و چهل و پنج دقیقه عصر، بدترین است.
از آسمان افتادن،
جوخه آتش،
بهترینند.
فکر کردن به هند،
نگاه کردن به دکه ذرت بوداده فروشی،
نگاه کردن به اینکه گاو ماتادور را میزند،
بهترینند.
جعبه لامپها،
سگی پیر که خودش را می خاراند،
بادام زمینی در کیسه پلاستیکی،
بهترینند.
حشرهکش به سوسکها زدن،
یک جفت جوراب تمیز،
جنم ذاتی که استعداد ذاتی را شکست دهد،
بهترینند.
در برابر جوخه آتش بودن،
نان خشک برای مرغان دریایی ریختن،
قاچ کردن گوجه فرنگیها،
بهترینند.
فرشهایی با لکه سوختگی سیگار،
ترکهای پیاده رو،
پیشخدمتی با عقل سالم،
بهترینند.
دستان مرده من،
قلب مرده من،
سکوت،
موسیقی آرام سنگها،
دنیا در حال سوختن،
بهترینند،
برای من. صفحات 139-141 کتاب
«تختها، توالتها، تو و من»
به تختهایی فکر کن
که بارها و بارها برای گاییدن و مردن استفاده شدهاند.
بر روی این زمین بعضی از ما بیشتر از آنچه بمیریم، سکس میکنیم.
اما بیشترمان بهتر از آن گونه که سکس میکنیم، میمیریم.
و ما جزء به جزء میمیریم.
در پارک هنگام بستنی خوردن،
در خانههای یخی جنون،
بر روی زیرانداز حصیری،
یا برای عشقهای از دست رفته،
یا،
یا.
:تختها، تختها، تختها.
: توالتها، توالتها، توالتها.
سیستم فاضلاب شهری، بزرگترین اختراع دنیاست.
تو من را ابداع کردی، من تو را،
و به همین دلیل دیگر با هم بر روی این تخت کنار نمیآییم.
تو بهترین اختراع دنیا بودی،
تا آن هنگام که سیفون را کشیدی و من را فرستادی رفت.
اکنون نوبت توست که منتظر دستگیره سیفون بمانی.
یک نفر این کار را با تو خواهد کرد، ای فاحشه.
و اگر آنها نکنند، تو با آنها این کار را میکنی،
به همراه مخلوطی از خداحافظیهای سبز و زرد و سفید و آبی و بنفشت. صفحات 154-155 کتاب -
zero stars. i’m convinced a horny teenage boy wrote almost every single poem.
-
حين تكف النساء
عن حمل المرايا
إلى كل مكان يذهبن إليه
فعندئذ ربما
يمكنهن أن يحدثنني
عن التحرر -
تشارلز بوكوفسكي
هذا أحد ال��جانين الذين ابدأ في القراءة له
يبدو أن الشعراء والفلاسفة، إما مجانين وغريبي الأطوار
وإما ناثري الألم والكآبة على كل ما يكتبون
وهذا البوكوفسكي جمع بين الإثنين معًا
بين الجنون والألم
بعض الناس لا يُصبون قطّ بلوثة الجنون
أيّ حياة رهيبة
تلك التي يعيشونها.
الألم زهرة
الألم زهور
تتفتح طوال الوقت
كنت قد قرأت لسامر أبو هواش من قبل
هالنّي ما قرأت من كآبة وغرابة الأطوار
لذا حين رأيت اسمه بجوار كلمة ترجمة
قررت أن استعين به لاقتحام عالم بوكوفسكي
خاصة وأن قراءة شعر مترجم ليست بالأمر السهل
أنا قلما اقرأ شعر بلغتي الأم ويعجبني، فماذا عن المترجم؟
فمثلما قال الرب
وهو يضع ساقًا على ساق:
أرى أنني صنعت الكثير من الشعراء
لكن ليس الكثير
من الشعر.
ورغم أنني أثناء قرائتي، فهمت القليل
وأعجبني أقل
لكن أستطيع أن أقول أنني استمتع
وربما إذا استطاع المرء بما فيه الكفاية الابتعاد عن الواضح فلن يعود واضحًا هو نفسه
تمّت -
An Almost Made Up Poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
loveee.. loveeeee bukowski >:D< -
The love Bukowski talks about is not tender. It's rough, dirty, vicious, often humiliating, sometimes cathartic.
It's a man sprawled sound asleep on the bed, snorting, hairy back and beer-belly. The kind of man who lights a cigarette and takes a piss and belches and grunts and is hungover till noon. It's a woman who cuts her toenails and washes her stockings in the sink and leaves the door open, wrinkled neck and pear-shaped breasts and varicose veins fully displayed.
Whether you're male or female, it's all your teenage self hadn't been told about love. You had to find out by yourself. It's the pleasure flowing through your body during intercourse; the pain echoing in your bedroom (and in your heart) after another unhappy relationship; the regrets, the self-contempt, your face ageing day by day, the scent on your pillow - the last fading traces of someone who still found you desirable...
This is what these poems talk about. Dirt. Trivial and spiritual dirt. And the monstruous horrible Beauty that rises from the dirt like a drunk Phoenix:
"she has saved me
from everything that is
not here."
If you're looking for romance, oh you'd better keep away from Bukowski's poems. They would bring you back to reality. They would upset and disgust you.
You wouldn't even understand them.
"she was getting wet and open
like a flower in the rain,"
he says, describing an afternoon of sex and junk food. Just recall these lines on a rainy afternoon, walking across a garden. Pick up a flower and look at it with attention.
That's it.
To all of you who know what it is like to be devoured by lust and purity; to the broken-hearted; to the bohemians and the idealists:
This is the poetry of your life. -
You either love Bukowski or you don't. There is no in between these two choices.
Life as we live it - is depicted in his verses like a nude woman, stripped off all covers and ornaments, bared, with all the beauty and ugliness. There's no pretension, there's no guilt, only bare faces with intense eyes of his muses, and objects and every little nice things and dirty stuff, lots of drunkenness and love, in various forms. I love this book of poems and I don't need to say why. You like reading Bukowski because you just do, giving particular reasons would never be okay and enough.
Here's one of my many favorite pieces-
"There is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love." -
"اگر من با این ماشین تحریر عذاب میکشم,
فکر کن بین کارگر های کاهو جمع کنی سالیناس چه حسی میداشتم؟
به مرد هایی فکر میکنم که در کارخانه ها هستند
راه گریزی ندارند
احساس خفگی می کنند
مادامی که زندگی می کنند
احساس خفگی می کنند
مادامی که به باب هوپ و لوسیل بال میخندند"
"تنهایی عمیقی در جهان است
که در حرکت عقربه های ساعت میتوان حس کرد
مردمان خسته
مثله شدگان از عشق یا بی عشقی
نا مهربان با هم
ترسیده ایم
نظام اموزشی
اموختمان
که همه برنده ایم
از شکست ها
و خودکشی نگفت
یا از وحشت رنج آور یک انسان
که کسی لمسش نکرده
یا با او سخن نرانده اند" -
Bukowski, the poet that not even translation betrays him, this is how I found Bukowski. An amazing poet that has rich soiled land in which he can plow however he wants according to his rich dictionary, and its enormous space yields him great production, even though some of his writings words isn't taken from old English but rather from modern English or papers English, and he intentionally do so, so he chooses easier words and rather pour his focus on the poetic image.
The loneliness that's caused by marginalization has remained for many years between him and America's critics, that they didn't even count him to any group that thrives with literaturic life not to mention he was independent except of himself; so he distend himself from any institutionalized or governmental representation and rather remained loyal to the proletariat oppressed class.
The poet has to be free from everything or else...the poet won't fly.
Bukowski had his own technique in books that his poetics impacted his narratives that his novels seemed poetic deepened in good narration far from any trace of a plot, in return, novels, the dialogue mode, and the multi personality in poetic texts has given him another dimension even though that's not innovative in poetry but it was one of his poetic marks.
His clear care for the oppressed class gives him points on the humane side and the intellectual orientation; As a reader however I wouldn't want to read a collection that all of its poems addresses one subject only like his collections that are written for the poor, oppression and the destitute. So, from a few collections his language started to be repetitive, despite different portrayed images, and his subjects started to get repetitive, despite different portrayed images also, and he was prolonging a single text on the expense of language. But the poetic image stays to be his differentiating mark.
؛
“she is no longer
the beautiful woman
she was. she sends
photos of herself
sitting upon a rock
by the ocean
alone and damned.
I could have had
her once. I wonder
if she thinks I
could have
saved her?”
؛
“when the phone rings
I too would like to hear words
that might ease
some of this.” -
bukowski is a pedophile, misogynist & poor writer. you can’t separate his life from his work, because he incorporates his horrible opinions into his poetry.
in this collection, he admits to j*rking off to a little girl riding a bike, says two men of colour should kill each other for his entertainment while boxing, and writes awful things about women.
stylistically speaking, he is lazy. it’s not revolutionary or interesting that his writing has no effort in it. the fact that he’s seen as a great american poet is ridiculous -
Poetry from a blunt, misogynistic asshole who withers himself away with alcohol. I got what i came for- to see Life through his eyes. His words are horrifically, uncomfortably beautiful.
-
وحيدا مع العالم أجمع
اللحم يغطي العظام
ثم يضيفون دماغا
وأحيانا روحا.
النساء يضربن
المزهريات عرض الحائط
والرجال يفرطون في السكر
ولا أحد يجد ضالته،
لكنهم يحتفظون جميعا بالأمل
زاحفين من سرير لآخر.
اللحم يبحث عن ما هو أَنْفَسُ من اللحم.
ليس هناك أي خلاص:
كلنا منذورين لقدرٍ فريد.
لا أحد يعثرُ علي مثيله.
امتلأت المدينة بالقاذورات
امتلأت المزابل
امتلأت الملاجئ
امتلأت المستشفيات
امتلأت المقابر
إنها فعلا الأشياءُ الوحيدة
التي تمتلئ. -
لم تعجبني أشعار بوكوفسكي
رغم أن بها فلسفة قوية ونزعة إلى الواقعية القريبة من السوداوية
لكنها تخلو من الصور الجمالية القوية، باستثناء بعض الأبيات المتفرقة -
“Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning when you wake up before the sun comes out. It’s just a little while, and then it burns away… Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.”
I finished reading "Love is a dog from hell" weeks ago and it's still fermenting like a fine Port wine.
This collection of Poems from the '70s depicts the author's experiences about Love, heartbreaks, loss, women, society and all the struggling experiences that an individual faces upon. A dog, in this case, represents all the raw emotions and crazy adventures that we perceive as love. The tribulations of life are like flames, we try to run but we can't escape them. It's all this and much more that Bukowski shares to the reader...
The Crunch
"too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.
an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.
who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
"no." -
يعيش بوكوفسكي ويقتات على أمور لا تساعد على العيش حقا، فشعره يستمد الاوكسجين من الألم ومن فناء الإنسان ومن الموت أيضا، ذلك الفناء الذي لا يستطيع أحد البقاء بعده سوى بالكلمات والأخيلة وقليل من الشعر لذلك كان بوكوفسكي شاعرا جامحا.
هو لا يكتب عن السعادة لكنه يجعلك سعيدا بطريقته في السعادة، يجعلك تؤمن بالهامش الكبير، وبأن الغائط الذي يتساقط من السماء جميل جدا وحيوي أكثر من كلمة حب كاذبة يقولها شخص ما، إنه يربطنا به كما يربط علبة حلوى شريط أسود عندما تحل الفيونكه تخرج كل قصيدة لكي تنقش في قلوبنا صمتها وضجرها. هذا الديون الذي أصابني برجفة من عنوانه لا يقرأ حتى يترك على الرف فيما بعد، إنه ديوان الليلة والنهار والساعة والدقيقة، مزق اوراقه واحتفظ بورقة منه كل يوم في جيبك وأنت ذاهب إلى المكان الذي تريد ان تركل أحدا ما ! -
Dear God. I couldn't trudge through more than 50 pages of this book. I'm fucking tired of the constant rambling about cock, balls, ejaculation, sperm, penis, thrusts, sex, whores, prostitutes, broads, breasts, beds, ass, cock, balls, sex, ass, cock, balls, ass, whores, panties, crotch, calves, sex, sex, sex. It gets tiring after the first ten pages. Lord knows how I managed to drag myself to the fiftieth page. I can't anymore. I just can't. Fuck this shit.
-
I loathe Charles Bukowski. Oh, he's so prolific. Yes, so is a monkey on crack in front of a typewriter.
-
Bukowski is one of those poets you can show to people who swear up & down that poetry is all rhyming & flowers. Even if you hate Bukowski, you must admit that he's an original. I love Bukowski. His poems are a perfect break from the 'real' world. They're brutally honest & lovely in their grotesqueness. This collection is wonderful. Sure it isn't for the faint of heart, but Bukowski really does prove that poetry comes in all shapes & sizes.
-
میتوانم بگویم که 75 درصد از چیزهائی که می نویسم خوب هستند، 45 درصدشان عالی اند، 10 درصدشان غیراخلاقی اند و 25 درصدشان آشغال. صد در صد شد؟
مصاحبه سیلویا بیزیو با بوکوفسکی
بدون شک این درصدی که بوکوفسکی گفته، برای این کتاب صدق نمی کنه. شعرهای این کتاب فارغ از عالی یا آشغال بودن تشکیل شده است از:40 درصد سکس کردن و مشروب خوردن، 35 درصد با مضمون حسرت و تنهایی و نوستالژی( پنهان در لایههای زیرین)، 5 درصد بالا آوردن توی توالت و 5 درصد اینکه مرگ به هیچ جاش نیست. صد در صد شد؟
اولین مجوعه شعر ترجمه شدهی بدن سانسور از بوکوفسکی. خوانندهی فارسی تا قبل از این کتاب یا با بوکوفسکی سلاخی شده مواجه بوده یا اصلا با بخش بزرگی از شخصیت ایشون هنوز آشنا نشده. مثل یک استاد دانشگاه بی سواد و پر ادعا باید در نمره دادن به این کتاب خساست به خرج میدادم. اما چطور
میتونم به این همه صراحت کلام و صداقت کم تر از 5 ستاره بدم؟
(به 4 ستاره اصلاح شد)
گریز
جان سالم از دست عنکبوت بیوه سیاه به در بردن
یک شاهکار بزرگ هنری ست
با آن تاری که میتواند ببافد
آرام تو را به سمت خودش میکشد
بغلت میکنند
و وقتی ارضا شد، تو را میکشد
مادامی که هنوز در آغوشش هستی و خونت را میمکد
من از دست عنکبوت بیوه سیاهم فرار کردم
چون که مردهای زیادی درون تارش داشت
و هنگامی که یک به یک آنها را در آغوش میکشید
من خودم را رهانیدم و به جایی که قبلا بودم فرار کردم
دلش برایم تنگ خواهد شد
نه برای عشقم
بلکه برای مزه ی خونم
ولی او کارش را بلد است
و خون های دیگری پیدا خواهد کرد
او آن قدر کارش را خوب بلد است
که من برای مردن، دلتنگ میشوم
ولی نه خیلی، چون من فرار کرده ام
و تارهای دیگری را میبینم
من دوستت داشتم
همچون مردی که عاشق زنیست
که هیچ گاه لمس نکرده
فقط برایش نوشته است و چند عکس کوچکش را نگه میدارد
بیشتر دوستت میداشتم، اگر در اتاق کوچکی مینشستم
سیگاری میپیچیدم
و به صدای شاشیدنت در توالت گوش میدادم
اما این هیچگاه رخ نداد
