Hank Is A Lonely Old Man
Will somebody be his friend before he picks that knife up & puts it to his throat!
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Comments to Hank Is A Lonely Old Man
What the fuk is this homosexual emo poetry shit?
Can't remember the author, but his alter ego/characters name is Hank Chinaski.
Charles Bukowski.
While I like Bukowski, I'm more a fan of Jack Kerouac.
Goddam, Hank, did you rape Mustang's mom or something?
Honestly, I don't know what that dikweed's deal is. He's fixated on me.
+1 for the use of the word "fixated", which is a tough word to use around here.
fixated
Every time Archman posts a comment, a white square is "fixated" to the left of his name.
If it ain't broken, don't fixate it.
i think he has a crash on you hank
Yeah.
"crash" :)
Super, it should be "affixed"
Sorry Cptn. I was being ironic...
Later I'll do something that's not ironic and you can compare...
Sorry, you hank and Wanko can go back to annoying eachother. I enjoy that.
thanx, I'll get right on it...
sorry i ment crush i was half asleep
or maybe hank is just a cum guzzling ass pirate that has the mental capacity of a retarded 5th grader when it comes to ripping on people. honestly, you should just stop trying. only your mom is impressed. by my huge cock. :)
DigitalSimp, you fucking spastic faggot, you have the intellectual ability of a maggot and the charisma of a tumor. Stop trying to challenge yourself by stepping up to me. You will always be one of the kids that gets picked last for the dodge ball team. Accept it, and stop acting out just because noone likes you, except for your daddy.
Why the random stab Digital? Not that I'm arguing.......
dodgeball team? did you really just fucking say that? at least my mom wasn't gang banged by every race in the world to produce the genetic defect we lovingly know as hank cumchowski. dodgeball. boy, until you come up with better material than dodgeball (ooh, my feelings. :( ), i refuse to debase myself and "challenge" a 3rd grade simpleton. fucking dodgeball. i can't believe you actually used that as a diss.
DigitalGimp, I obviously struck a nerve there, simp. Don't cry too much. We can't all be popular. You were left out and it hurt. I understand. You just have to realize that you're a loser here, as well, like every other place you've been. Suck it up, as your daddy used to tell you.
Here's a word of advice, Digitalshitt; read "Call of the Wild" before you step out on this forum.
you'll have to elaborate, claude, as to what jack london has to do with this conversation. and i bow down to you hank. obviously here in the infantile universe, dodgeball is some very serious shit, and i have totally been owned. you are definitely big man on campus here. so you have the crown of ruler of all that is unreal, while in life you sit at home fapping to pictures of small children in the sears catalog wishing that the pain would go away. i truly feel sorry for you. just a shame that i could buy and sell you at will.
Charles Bukowski. Best writer you've never heard of.
Who hasn't heard of him?
wow, what a pretentious comment. "He's so underground, your not allowed to read him" Drug fucked wandering homo is all he was.
He was an alcoholic, but drugs and homo? Where did you get that from?
He's a fucking poet.
'nuff said.
Sure, if by "He's" you mean "He was". Anyway, poetry is for people too lazy to read essays.
No, they are not, Tired Gay. But, you're too tired, so, don't worry about it.
d. cut off a finger(s) and post the vid
Nice post, Musty. Not my favorite of his, but still pretty cool.
Tears of the Gods.
The Blackbirds are Rough Today
by Charles Bukowski
lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
shot down like an ex-pug selling
dailies on the corner.
taken by tears like
an aging chorus girl
who has gotten her last check.
a hanky is in order your lord your
worship.
the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
jail---
wine wine whine,
the blackbirds run around and
fly around
harping about
Spanish melodies and bones.
and everywhere is
nowhere---
the dream is as bad as
flapjacks and flat tires:
why do we go on
with our minds and
pockets full of
dust
like a bad boy just out of
school---
you tell
me,
you who were a hero in some
revolution
you who teach children
you who drink with calmness
you who own large homes
and walk in gardens
you who have killed a man and own a
beautiful wife
you tell me
why I am on fire like old dry
garbage.
we might surely have some interesting
correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and
cemeteries
the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics
will still go on a
while
until we run out of stamps
and/or
ideas.
don't be ashamed of
anything; I guess God meant it all
like
locks on
doors.
I Hate Poetry
by Paul Dallgas-Frey
Poetry is for wimps.
When I think of poetry,
I think of maidens
in gossamer gowns,
skipping through meadows
with baskets full of flowers.
Can you imagine a poet
going out for a beer with the guys
after a hard day
of writing poems?
I canât.
Poetry is for wimps.
Itâs all about doilies
and butterfly wings,
or stuff so personal
only the writer
could possibly know
what itâs about,
which really
makes me crazy.
And half the time
it doesnât even rhyme anyway.
Twat, what is about 'gossamer gowns' in the poem above? Nothing.
ah, someone needs a hug!!!
"dik" ...by dik
dik a shiny greasy dik
but why for
a dik but a dik
but why for
dik is it just a dik
but is it....
\a dik
sorry hank couldn't resist ..bukowski is pretty cool
â San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time â and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.
My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights â or very early mornings â when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .
And that, I think, was the handle â that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didnât need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting â on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark â that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
-the good D. Hunter S. Thompson
apologies about the long post
Don't see any need to apologise.
I guess I missed out on Bukowski and Thompson.Never been much of a poetry man myself, I like my words in the form of lyrics but it's all the same thing in the end. Someone has to record the feeling of the times for future generations.
650 Lightning eh? Made not 15 miles from where I sit.
Save the hug for Hank, Hogmaster. Rather than getting pissy because I goofed on your bullshit poetry, try detecting the irony in the satire... A poem about hating poetry?
who is hank ?
I am.
i am
He is.
WE be.
No, Im Hank!
??
I am Spartacus!
'ello Bruse.
Oh god, I think reading this shit has turned me emo.