MY MADNESS // Charles Bukowski
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- čas přidán 8. 10. 2015
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Recommended Poetry Books of Charles Bukowski
"Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame" (1974)
"Love is a Dog From Hell" (1977)
"You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense" (1986)
"The Last Night of the Earth Poems" (1992)
It's like someone penned down everything I have felt over the course of my existence. It's like someone took my soul out and poured it on the sheets that's why I love Buke! ❤
💙
I love libraries and the musty smell. I love the old history.
Amen to that.
This poem saved me from my madness. I thought I was the only loner. Not that anyone disrespected me or ignored me. I just couldn't connect with any of those people that were excited with the stale generalities.
Now I know this is not something to be ashamed of. There are a lot of people like me, but this"lot" still pales in comparison to the number of average ones out there.
Stay strong brother people like us , we are all we have.
@@aviralbhatt1664 Just noticed this comment. Thank you for that brother!
We aren't sad , not happy but I guess just existing . Feeling the human nature beside us watching these humans arguing and fighting and getting excited over things which I can't understand why .
Much love my brother. ❤️❤️
maybe you have insights which are hardly understood by the rest.. maybe you are hypersensitive.. maybe you have asperger's... maybe there is a super power in you which awaits to be released.. and you leaned towards the views of the others too much.. and neglected your own light. whatever it is.. i hope and wish that you find a way to be your true self. cheers.
Damn, he put all my feelings ,that I was carrying around with me for all the 23 years, into words
Din telalovic same
Very much so same
Hate humans love animals
There are enough words for all of us. Damn
that line almost got me.
Ashish Kumar Singh E
Sambhranta Bashyal I know how moving is it, we can all offer a little light and give our species hope or at the very least feeling 🔥
There are too many words .•°
Charles Bukowski once again describes a world of melancholy but with a strange constrast of hope.
The music by Arvo (Spiegel im Spiegel) inspired me to write this poem
Thin Ice
She told me I was on thin ice.
I didn’t know why.
She never seemed to have the courage to stand up to me before.
But something shifted inside of her.
She was always crying, even when I was mad and I felt hurt and needed comfort.
She took it away from me.
I blamed her for a long time for the things I had to go through.
But she was too caught up in her own sorrows, so every kiss I planted. Every comforting word, fell on deaf ears.
She just wanted to be right, and pitied.
Looking back I wish things could’ve been different.
But I know, for once in my life, it wasn’t my fault.
Perhaps I could’ve been kinder. But I did the best I could.
I was a good boyfriend. That time and that time alone.
Other relationships have flown before me, never settling on love.
It seems I’m destined to find comfort in others but never love.
It seems as though the ones I do love, destroy me.
But I can take it.
Because I know, love is still out there. I can still feel that emotion.
A feeling I once thought incapable of anymore.
And I’ve found that being in love, whether its reciprocated or not is genuine in itself.
I’m comfortable as I am… alone.
And as Bukowski said: I like myself.
I’m the best form of entertainment I have.
I hope you feel the same about you.
I hope you find comfort… in yourself.
Subscribed ✨💙
Bukowski was brilliant. He gets to the point in style.
STYLE IS THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING to open a can of sardines can be art
Always here. It’s crazy how I always come back to this. Over and over on repeat ( again(again))
This is truly beautiful.
I’m sure I’ll be back again.
Thank you 🙏
Thank You For Watching And For Your Kind, Kind Words
there are degrees of madness, and the madder you are the more obvious it will be to other people. most of my life i have hidden my madness within myself but it is there. for instance, some person will be speaking to me of this or that and while this person is boring me with their stale generalities, i will imagine this person with his or her head resting on the block of the guillotine, or i will imagine them in a huge frying pan, frying away, as they look at me with their frightened eyes. in actual situations such as these, i would most probably attempt a rescue, but while they are speaking to me i cant help but imagining them thus. or, in a milder mood, i might envision them on a bicycle riding swiftly away from me. i simply have problems with human beings. animals, i love. they do not lie and seldom attempt to attack you. at times they may be crafty but his is allowable. why?
most of my young and middle-aged life was spent in tiny rooms, huddled there, staring at the walls, the torn shades, the knobs on dresser drawers. i was aware of the female and desired her but i didn't want to jump through all the hoops to get her. i was aware of money, but again, like with the female, i didn't want to do the things needed to get it. all i wanted was enough for a room and for something to drink. i drank alone, usually on the bed, with all the shades pulled. at times i went to the bars to check out the species but the species remained the same- not much and often far less than that. in all the cities, i checked out the libraries. book after book. few books said anything to me. they were mostly dust in my mouth, sand in my mind. none of it related to me or how i felt: where i was-nowhere-what i had-nothing-and what i wanted-nothing. the books of the centuries only compounded the mystery of having a name, a body, walking around, talking, doing things. nobody seemed stuck with my particular madness.
in some of the bars i became violent, there were alley fights, many of which i lost. but i wasn't fighting anybody in particular, i wasn't angry, i just couldn't understand people, what they were, what they did, how they looked. i was in and out of jail, i was evicted from my rooms. i slept on park benches, in graveyards. i was confused but i wasn't unhappy. i wasn't vicious. i just couldn't make anything out of what there was. my violence was against the obvious trap, i was screaming and they didn't understand. and even in the most violent fights i would look at my opponent and think, why is he angry? he wants to kill me. then i'd have to throw punches to get the beast off me. people have no sense of humor, they are so fucking serious about themselves.
somewhere along the way, and i have no idea where it came from, i got to thinking, maybe i should be a writer. maybe i can put down the words that i haven't read, maybe by doing that i can get this tiger off my back. and so i started and decades rolled by without much luck. now i was a mad writer. more rooms, more cities. i sunk lower and lower. freezing one time in atlanta in a tar paper shack, living on one dollar and a quarter a week. no plumbing, no light, no heat. i sat freezing in my california shirt. one morning i found a small pencil stub and i began writing poems in the margins of old newspapers on the floor.
finally, at the age of 40, my first book appeared, a small chapbook of poems, Flower, Fist and Bestial Wail. The package of books had arrived in the mail and i opened the package and here were the little chapbooks. they spilled on the sidewalk, all the little books and i knelt down among them, i was on my knees and i picked up a Flower Fist and i kissed it. that was 30 years ago.
i'm still writing. in the first four months this year i have written 250 poems. i still feel the madness rushing through me, but i still havent gotten the word down the way i want it, the tiger is still on my back. i will die with that son-of-a-bitch on my back but i've given him a fight. and if there is anybody out there who feels crazy enough to want to become a writer, i say go ahead, spit in the eye of the sun, hit those keys, its the best madness going, the centuries need help, the species cry for light and gamble and laughter. give it to them. there are enough words for all of us.
Amazing
Magnificent
The conversations I encounter on you tube are so much deeper and thoughtful than the shallowness on my face book feed.
I’m going down to the water by the city and I’m taking my hope with me. May it shine brightly and light those shifting waters on fire 🔥
To put these feelings into words takes a very strong man. Thank you Charles Bukowski.
I understand Bulowski perfectly. You are great at reciting poems. I have subscribed because of your voice and calm nature. You are so beautifully serious.
youre beautifull Francesca,italiana madonna!!
Bukowski is pure honesty. This makes superficial people uncomfortable.
Yes !! very !!
A lot of people have commented on the poem, and how charles bukowski was great, and he was, but I think it's important to take a look at the video too. How the black encroaches in from top and bottom. How it goes from colour to black and white. How the light starts burning and, I guess you increased the contrast, and only to finally zoomed in on your eyes, and have the writing appear; "This is who I am". Amazing. Great inspiration for me as a new creator.
I listen to this video at LEAST once per day. - this and a letter to John Martin. Well Read.
He was a very dedicated man.
no he wasn't his gravestone literally says don't try!
@@lizard1533 Visit his web, there’s the number of poems and stories he wrote.
@@lizard1533@ Lizard And yet, he wrote a few poems close to the most brilliant. Have you read Sharon OLds "As the Summer Camp BUs Pulls Away from the Curb?"
I've been listening to you through my highschool school years(2017). Thx for keeping this post and i will keep as my inspiration going forward in life.. So 😂 thanks and i hope you do well🎉😂 with ur channel.❤
Thank You For The Kind Words, And Thank You For Watching❤️
I'm a huge Bukowski fan. Keep it up Parable!
Bukowski... I like Bukowski's work. He is my favorite poet. Because he is not pretentious or forgiving in his poetry... if there is any better poet, please advice.
There is no else
Tony Walton Amen
Simon Shaninga hes the best. William Burroughs is a great writer but absolutely off the rails with his thoughts. Dean Young writes beautifully, combining heart with science. Very different than Buk but good nonetheless . buk will always be my #1
I am Glad I found you! THY MY SOUL.💜
This bring me joy. Thank you very much!
Back once again with the renegade master
Oh Charles! How alien we are in this alien world! Flopping around in that sizzling frying pan, wishing our heads were resting on the guillotine block, waiting for the axe to fall, relieving us all of this tar paper shack syndrome that plagues us, haunts us, stalks us from this waking world deep into our midnight dreams. Oh if poetry could fly us to the moon! Fly us to Mars! Where, like Martians we would walk about in thin skins, covered by some shiny exterior, breathing filtered Martian air, dreaming filtered Martian dreams, writing filtered poetry about filtered home, angered by how much filtered home betrayed us. So it is, this timeless time, remarking as we stumble through life, typing lines that don't make sense, composing prose that doesn't get us anywhere in this filtered chaos, as we chew on stale bread, drink rancid beer, like some homeless person, lost in a dark alley, hoping some light will lead us into tomorrow, finally laying our heads down on some soiled brick of baked clay, next to some stinking dumpster, thinking in our confused thoughts, "Surely there must be some other fool more foolish than myself", waking in the dark of night, finding some hardened mugger standing over us, knife blade glinting in a ray of mirrored street. Once we're robbed and bleeding, left for dead, nickels and dimes stolen from our pockets, perhaps we rise again, pull the filthy collar of our worn out coat up around our ears, trying to keep out life, trying to imagine something beyond the hellish beast that growls at us each and every day, nipping at our heels. Oh words! Why hast thou forsaken me! What sin have I committed? What prayer have I not recited? Why does existence shun me as I plead for mercy? Such is life, as I breath and sleep and murmur words that fall unheard into the gutter. If the sun didn't get up tomorrow perhaps I would find atonement, understand how failing, how failure makes the world go round. If the stars blinked out, one by one, maybe I'd wake in that darkness, thinking to myself, "This must be heaven, my mother's womb, this must be the place where I am reborn", but then who isn't reborn each time they wake? But in the dark? Who doesn't begin life anew each time they fall down, pick themselves up, wipe themselves off and amble into the ample light of each newly filtered day?
Cheers and Thanks!
Loved the piece
Keep at it
Wow. Let me read it for the fourth time!
❤
He was not unique nor alone he had the luck to be able to articulate such and get paid for it. Glad he could i love readìng about him
Nice use of music. Really compliments the piece. Great reading of a beautiful poem.
I always come back to this reading, fantastic, and well finished.
There was no bullshit behind Bukowski. He spoke honestly about everything and called it like he saw it. And we all have that little Bukowski in our brains that wants to scream bullshit at all the hypocrisies of the world. That little Bukowski that is happy in sadness and revels in being alone. The world can be a shit place and instead of putting on rose colored sunglasses and pretending, Bukowski reminds us all it's still shit we're looking at. Absolute genius of a man.
I enjoy drinking alone with nobody else...the more I drink alone....the more I feel by myself...
I hesitatingly clicked and I couldn’t stop listening. Some low key deep shit.
Love your channel, you recite Charles perfectly with a modern tough. Thank you.
Tounge** love auto correct
You read this so beautifully
At least you didn't take down this one. Listening on repeat until the other videos are back.
there are enough words for all of us
back once again for the renegade master
splendid rendition
Wow, such inspiring piece.
Great work of art
This poem speaks to me and so does your haunting voice.
There was a break here. Your voice says so. Good.
That was beautiful
Fucking great man! Just great...
dude your content is pure gold. this is the youtube i want.
So deep!
Thank you Jeremy.!
thanks for that
Wow. You’re amazing. Thanks for uploading all of these videos with spoken poetry. Many of these are REALLY GOOD. It’s awesome man.
I love the ones where you have dark flashing photos. It’s nice in a dark room. Don’t know how healthy it is for my subconscious though 😂😂😂
Your tortured soul will lend you no peace, for the evil in your heart you refuse to release.💔
1:14 Animals, I love. They do not lie. And seldom, attempt to attack you. ❤
This is too relatable to me
It's as if he was me living life in another body
Samuel Solazzo that's not impossible
Samuel Solazzo Is that not what he is, another you...
Precisely
Ma. a I know not literally--- but figuratively. I just find Charles relatable in that he feels alienated from other fellow humans and finds solitude comforting.
I'm in love
well done man that was great
keep it up czcams.com/video/Zkz6qKCYjDM/video.html
god dhamn this hittin rn .
Felt it 😥
Hello Darkness my old friend.
welcome back Mr Wamble :)
Still here brother
Were you driving on the PCH ( highway 1) in Southern California?
Hello Madness my old friend. :)
Here I am again :)
In libraries I always go the B's first. Bukowski, Burroughs, Brautigan. Sadly, nothing.
If you think you are the one whose crazy, odds are its because you happen to be normal- its the world outside the door thats crazy. You just happened to realize it. The mind is great at escapism
It seems there is a pattern here 😊
name of the song pleaseee?
Good Morning
I like Sylvia Plath and Charles Bukowski and not necessarily in that order.
Hey jeremy ward look up (inferno) by Karla Hart and read that aloud.
This is my madness.
I'm still here bro :)
I'm back, brother, still mad.
There are degrees of madness, and the madder you are the more obvious it will be to other people. Most of my life I have hidden my madness within myself but it is there. For instance, some person will be speaking to me of this or that and while this person is boring me with their stale generalities, I will imagine this person with his or her head resting on the block of the guillotine, or I will imagine them in a huge frying pan, frying away, as they look at me with their frightened eyes. In actual situations such as these, I would most probably attempt a rescue, but while they are speaking to me I can’t help but imagining them thus. Or, in a milder mood, I might envision them on a bicycle riding swiftly away from me. I simply have problems with human beings. Animals, I love. They do not lie and seldom attempt to attack you. At times they may be crafty but this is allowable. Why?
Most of my young and middle-aged life was spent in tiny rooms, huddled there, staring at the walls, the torn shades, the knobs on dresser drawers. I was aware of the female and desired her but I didn’t want to jump through all the hoops to get her. I was aware of money, but again, like with the female, I didn’t want to do the things needed to get it. All I wanted was enough for a room and for something to drink. I drank alone, usually on the bed, with all the shades pulled. At times I went to the bars to check out the species but the species remained the same-not much and often far less than that. In all the cities, I checked out the libraries. Book after book. Few books said anything to me. They were mostly dust in my mouth, sand in my mind. None of it related to me or how I felt: where I was-nowhere-what I had-nothing-and what I wanted-nothing. The books of the centuries only compounded the mystery of having a name, a body, walking around, talking, doing things. Nobody seemed stuck with my particular madness. In some of the bars I became violent, there were alley fights, many of which I lost. But I wasn’t fighting anybody in particular, I wasn’t angry, I just couldn’t understand people, what they were, what they did, how they looked. I was in and out of jail; I was evicted from my rooms. I slept on park benches, in graveyards. I was confused but I wasn’t unhappy. I wasn’t vicious. I just couldn’t make anything out of what there was. My violence was against the obvious trap, I was screaming and they didn’t understand. And even in the most violent fights I would look at my opponent and think, why is he angry? He wants to kill me. Then I’d have to throw punches to get the beast off me. People have no sense of humor; they are so fucking serious about themselves. Somewhere along the way, and I have no idea where it came from, I got to thinking, maybe I should be a writer. Maybe I can put down the words that I haven’t read, maybe by doing that I can get this tiger off my back. And so I started and decades rolled by without much luck. Now I was a mad writer. More rooms, more cities. I sunk lower and lower. Freezing one time in Atlanta in a tar paper shack, living on one dollar and a quarter a week. No plumbing, no light, no heat. I sat freezing in my California shirt. One morning I found a small pencil stub and I began writing poems in the margins of old newspapers on the floor.
Finally, at the age of 40, my first book appeared a small chapbook of poems, Flower, Fist and Bestial Wail. The package of books had arrived in the mail and I opened the package and here were the little chapbooks. They spilled on the sidewalk, all the little books and I knelt down among them, I was on my knees and I picked up a Flower Fist and I kissed it. That was 30 years ago. I’m still writing. In the first four months this year I have written 250 poems. I still feel the madness rushing through me, but I still haven’t gotten the word down the way I want it, the tiger is still on my back. I will die with that son-of-a-bitch on my back but I’ve given him a fight. And if there is anybody out there who feels crazy enough to want to become a writer, I say go ahead, spit in the eye of the sun, hit those keys, its the best madness going, the centuries need help, the species cry for light and gamble and laughter. Give it to them. There are enough words for all of us.
How many subs do you have?
Hello Again :)
What's the poem's name? I can't seem to find it anywhere.
ALL CAPS not a poem. It's an excerpt or speech problem from some interview
Never mind, I found it.
Where did you find it? Share the link, please?
All is already said...there is nothing new under the sun
👍👍👍😘😘
Hello Brudda.
I think 50% of the views on this video are mine.
It's ok ... I'm still here
DUDE, YOU DELETED ALL YOUR VIDEOS? WHY?
Your Madness?
Easy... Texting while driving ;)
Are you hauling a body bag? in this video
The Myth of German Villany...
by Benton L. Bradberry
All my like a pretender I was sane
Here again. I must be mad?
hell is other people....
Guess who's back, back again...
Out of your work do you have a favorite video?
czcams.com/video/5FlkC_F3A3s/video.html
Can somebody explain me the creepy intro
Not just me.
People have no sense of humor. They're so FUCKING Serious about themselves.
Place trust in our-self, for we know more than ourselves, and more than everybody. Love falls further than sacrifice, surpassing innocence.
And further than innovation; surpassing phantasy; and equating creativity. That is our soul, and everything else is corruption.
So, to help people; we must first, understand people. To understand people; we must first, understand ourselves. And to do so; to truly understand our self, we must understand society. That’s their worlds, and everyone else within them.
And more than anything we need control of our self.
King and queens, and magnificent cave-dwellers hear; hear; well; for I’m a true bred alien-lifeform on a visit. And I have seen some strange things happening.
Abysses, and light beams. And so, I say, with un-told responsibilities, comes untold responsibilities, and the world will decide. Respect intelligence, for I’m a proud child of this nation; for the better, or the worse, until the shadows chasing catches up.
The err of the past is set in stone, and to err in the now is a flaw, but to err into the future is a sin.
A courageous man watches injustice, and a righteous man respects intelligence, the fool hearted turns away.
who is jeremy word? curiosity kills me.
You Tell Me
@@THEPARABLE you?
I haven't left you
The centuries need help
Get Out Of My Head...
If you like this you should check out Lord Byron's "Epitaph for a Dog" right after this cuz' it's simular & nice+ eloquent & would compliment this. Or Maybe this one: Voice
Words by Woody Guthrie, Music by Ani DiFranco
I don't know how far I'm going to have to go
To see my own self or to hear my own voice
I tuned in on the radio and for hours never heard it
And then I went to the moving picture shown
And never heard it there
I put handful of coins into machines and watched records turn
But voice there was no voice of mine
I mean it was not my voice
The words not words that I hear in my own ears
When I walk along and look at faces
I set here in a Jewish delicatessen, and I order a hot pastrami
Sandwich on rye bread and I hear the lady ask me
Would you like to have a portion of cole slaw on the side
And I know when I heard her speak that
She spoke my voice
And I told her I would take my slaw on a side dish please
And I would like to have a glass of tea with lemon please
And she knew that I was speaking her words
And a fellow sat across at a table near my wall
And spoke as he ate his salami and drank his beer
And somehow I had the feeling
As I heard him speak, and he spoke a long time,
And not one word was in my personal language,
But I could tell by the deep sound, by the full tone
Of his voice that he spoke my language
And I suppose you may wonder just how he could speak
In a dialect that I could not savvy nor understand
And yet understand every sound that he made
I learned to do this a long time ago
Walking up and down the sideroads and the main stems
Of this land here
I learned to listen this way when I washed dishes on the ships
I had to learn how to do it when I walked ashore in Africa
And in Scotland and in Ireland and in Britain,
London, Liverpool, Glasgow, Scots towns and Anglo's farms,
Irish canals and railroads bridges, Highlander's cows and horses
And here I knew the speech was the same as mine but
It was the dialect again, nasal, throatsy, deep chesty,
From the stomach, from the lungs, high in the head, pitched up and down,
And here I had to learn again
To say this is my language this is part of my voice
Oh but I have not even heard this voice, these voices,
On the stages, screens, radios, records, juke boxes,
In magazines nor not in newspapers, seldom in courtrooms,
And more seldom when students and policemen are studying the faces
Behind the voices
And I thought as I saw a drunken streetwalking man mutter
And spit and curse into the wind out the café's plate glass,
That maybe, if I looked close enough, I might hear
Some more of my voice
And I ate as quiet as I could, so as keep my eyes
And my ears and my feelings wide open
And did hear
Heard all that I came to hear here in Coney Island 's Jewish air
Heard reflections, recollections, seen faces in memory,
Heard voices untangle their words before me
And I knew by the feeling I felt that here was my voice.