water. Forgive me,
O Lord, who was in the old
shoe, small. Oh, forgive

me in the middle
of the mountains from the voice
of the day and night,

speechless death. Forgive
me the leopard who died last,
large. Oh, let me sink

all the fleets, armies
defeated. The first poem
fax, this: add to cart.

[via French-Galician-Dutch-Filipino-Latin-Welsh, Google translator]

http://www.booktryst.com/2011/03/charles-bukowskis-last-unpublished-poem.html

The central problem
of reality is the
sand of memory

***************

Democracy is
an incomprehensible
series of effects

***************

Immortality
is a fight between two bald
men over a comb

***************

To die for art is
easier than to live for
God the destroyer

***************

A translation is
truth in the divine language
of uncertainty

***************

The empire of love
is built on a river of
resigned solitude

***************

Life itself is a
quotation that corrupts life’s
quotation itself

***************

Causality is
a dream that suppresses the
fact of Paradise

***************

The future devours
posterity; it is an
ignorant tiger

***************

Religion is the
coronation of the sphere
of the infinite

***************

There is a single
moment in which one finds out:
time can’t be measured

***************

Take hands and feet and
something abomunist, or
spit’s about the same.

Frink abomunist
poetry, drawing, photos,
unemployment and

the abomunist
Prime Minister. Countries risk
real-time, ready-

to-drink death, nation
of abomunists who feel
American pain,

BOLI pain.
If you’re in Abomunist
Square, the exception

is a rectangle.
If you want to display talk
using only a

newspaper, read with
abomunibility.
$50 is

an abomunist
debt. Solve problems and write your
own money, not for

more money, for the
abomunist Catholic
fanaticism of

what are just dreams set
Protestant true. The think-Pope
is a candidate

for think-President,
fosters poet children who
believe that the new

literature builds
printism abomunibly—
abomunists of

write-foot, published by
outdated restrictions. Such
artists desire to

communicate but
read dentistry files at home,
in unmarried house

of mother’s mother.
Insane sanitariums,
university

prisons, USO
kindergartens and county
canteens—get ready

for abomunist
preservatives—compromised
rejectionary

philosophy of
abomunist everything
but snowman water.

[via Japanese-Latvian-Norwegian-Polish-Vietnamese, Bing translator]

sorrow strikes something
deep down in melancholy
dismal tears. heavy‑

hearted funeral
rites, black-bemoaned mourning, sobs
sunk in sighing and

silence. pitiful
violent lamentation.
loud weeping bewails

weeping’s lament of
weeping. depression deplores
anguish, deplores the

deep-grieved regret of
pain of mind, passionate pain,
regret afflicted

with tender-hearted,
moving compassion. downcast
sympathy casts sad

obscurity, the
gloom of midnight, a sad shades’
gloomy tenderness,

full of pity. soul-
wept dejection, cloudiness,
grief-heavy total

darkness, serious
gloom of a partial forest.
the cloudy of mind

sunk in mind-gloom, the
night’s somber affliction mourns
burdensome distress.

extreme anguish of
body, extreme anguish of
mind. harassed by the

silent Almighty,
weighed down by torture, humble
suffering, dull shades

of deep prostration,
loud, oppressive misery,
plaintive disaster,

a calamity
of trouble and affliction,
a mournful wailing

of calamity.
distressing humility—
mute grief, eloquent.

http://www.listsofnote.com/2011/12/eloquent-silence.html

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is replaceable.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is irrelevant.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is impossible.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is contradiction.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is autocracy.

This is not that time.
This is the time of extreme
moral paradise,

the court of vast last
resort, when the chrome-plated
levers in the bleak

machine stop in a
wasteland of abridgment, sick
with dissenting stars.

Art is an orgy
of chameleons huge with
monkey dementia

***************

Art is the highest
degree of normal—super
normal, which is mad

***************

Art is plunged in snow
like the unlimited steppes
of delirium

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it’s not

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it is

***************

Art is art as long
as it isn’t grasped by man’s
raw smitten fingers

***************

Art is not in bed
with the State; it sleeps naked
in the dirt with roots

***************

Art is mimesis.
Art is mimesis. Art is
mimesis. Art is . . .

***************

Art is contrary.
Art is homogeneous.
Art forgets itself.

***************

Art is afraid of
extinction—but it scorns all
continuity

***************

Art is painting but
painting is not art; painting
is mood carpeting

***************

Art is dirt in the
service of rubbish; art is
fashionable mud

***************

Art participates
in the creative process
by not being love

***************

rotting in ozone
chrysalis—sun stuttering
in all-night purple

cafeterias—
smell of cobra jazz covered
in iron heart of

goof ball sleep—rasp of
green slimy iridescent
shit rubbing on flesh

somewhere in the cold
mouth of heavy knife time—boy
torch moving, rusty

lamp, tongue terms—round disk
of morphine, script gristle in
rooming house bathtub—

shrinking bread over
lagoon of old saliva—
village of built racks

blue fluid heavy
as word dust stacked like lust in
shuttered silence—we

came out of the mud
in blue image forever
trailing patterns of

demagnetized glooms
from carnival rooms splintered
in rotting orgasm—

we all live in the
fish city—dead postcard of
a place forgotten—

muttering burlap
music, addicts waiting in
the vines—blue addicts

in the attic of
crystal birdcalls—the city
from when we had names

Somewhere between chance
and mystery lies the grave
seduction of smoke

***************

Truth doesn’t matter . . .
A daily cocktail of truth
cannot change the world

***************

What is lovelier
than life without memory?
Amnesia is God!

***************

A paranoiac
imagination is the
freedom of poets

***************

Why can’t the Devil
in all His luminousness
make me his consort?

***************

When you’re naked, age
matters; when you’re in the grave,
age doesn’t matter

***************

Fortunately, an
exquisite sense of horror
protects me from life

***************

Oppression of love:
essential spurt of reason,
then bitter regret

***************

For a writer, the
margin of conformity
tastes of word torture

***************

Religion will not
regain its old power till
we pray to Science

***************

Abstinence is not
simplicity; abstinence
is the death of God

***************

Civilization
advances by extending
its distrust of art

***************

The human body
is an instrument for the
production of vice

***************

To make the past live
we must perceive it as the
eternal present

***************

There are billions of
molecules in the human
soul—they dance like fish

***************

Ninety percent of
life is pain; the rest is Christ
nailed to a cheap cross

***************

Immortality
is the everlasting search
for anesthesia

***************

Of what value is
the attainment of knowledge
if you have no mind?

***************

Solitariness
is a bagatelle; being
alone is pure zest

***************

Amid the flux, there
is something that survives: the
need for a large truck

***************

Put your brain in cold
storage; thinking is merely
abstract inference

***************