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Paperback The Last Night of the Earth Poems Book

ISBN: 0876858639

ISBN13: 9780876858639

The Last Night of the Earth Poems

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Book Overview

"The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles."--Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author

"He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels."--Leonard Cohen, songwriter

In The Last Night of the Earth Poems, Charles Bukowski's gritty poems deal with writing, death and immortality, literature, city life, illness, war, and the past.

Customer Reviews

5 ratings

Bukowski Still Going Strong

Having been a long standing fan of Bukowski's work I am partial to this book because it represents his later work which is just as powerful as any of his early lyrical work like Crucifix in a Deathand and It Catches My Heart In It's Hand. Poems like Dinosaura,We; In The Shadow of the Rose and My Uncle Jack capture the author still at the peak of his creative powers. Of course there are the typical Buk topics like horseracing, boozing, women, the outsiders, but Bukowski takes a soft turn by dedicating a poem to his wife which will catch many Buk fans surprisingly off guard. If you are new to Charles Bukowski's writing you will definitely want to get this book; it will inspire you to try his other books. If you're a long time Buk reader, you probably have this one in your collection already. I highly recommend The Last Night of the Earth Poems to everyone that has a taste for earthy, lyrical and ballsy poetry.

Death is smoking my cigars...

...and..... The piano has been drinking My necktie's asleep The combo went back to New York, and left me all alone The jukebox has to take a leak Have you noticed that the carpet needs a haircut? And the spotlight looks just like a prison break And the telephone's out of cigarettes As usual the balcony's on the make And the piano has been drinking, heavily The piano has been drinking And he's on the hard stuff tonight The piano has been drinking And you can't find your waitress Even with the Geiger counter And I guarantee you that she will hate you From the bottom of her glass And all of your friends remind you That you just can't get served without her The piano has been drinking The piano has been drinking And the lightman's blind in one eye And he can't see out of the other And the piano-tuner's got a hearing aid And he showed up with his mother And the piano has been drinking Without fear of contradiction I say The piano has been drinking Our Father who art in ? Hallowed by thy glass Thy kindom come, thy will be done On Earth as it is in the lounges Give us this day our daily splash Forgive us our hangovers As we forgive all those who continue to hangover against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver from evil and someone you must all ride home Because the piano has been drinking And he's your friend not mine Because the piano has been drinking And he's not my responsibility The bouncer is this Sumo wrestler Kinda cream puff casper milk toast And the owner is just a mental midget With the I.Q. of a fencepost I'm going down, hang onto me, I'm going down Watch me skate across an acre of linoleum I know I can do it, I'm in total control And the piano has been drinking And he's embarassing me The piano has been drinking, he raided his mini bar The piano has been drinking And the bar stools are all on fire And all the newspapers were just fooling And the ash-trays have retired And I've got a feeling that the piano has been drinking It's just a hunch The piano has been drinking and he's going to lose his lunch And the piano has been drinking Not me, not me, The piano has been drinking not me Enjoy this book kiddies. Buk can do no wrong, he never did. Turn on only one lamp, with no shade (as if there ever was one), open up a bottle of Ol' Red Eye, throw the cap away, put on some T.Waits, and cherish the fact that you and your misery are not as alone as you thought.

A Schopenhauer gone to seed....

Back in my 20's and 30's during my "dark night of the soul" Bukowski was about the only author and poet that I could still read. I think that this was because he was the only writer that I could identify with. We had too much in common: we had read the same books, worked the same crummy jobs, patronized the same sort of bars, and above all, suffered the same kind of fools. So I knew that he was for real. After I had reached bottom, been dismembered by demons, and yet strangely could not die, I still read Bukowski. I knew that in order to be reborn, you first have to suffer hell and die. Bukowski had been there, had done that. I knew the validity of his path. I had done it. Bukowski was an anachronism- a literate, and published, working man. That is something that has been almost obliterated in American "culture." Maybe it had something to do with his German roots. I always think of him as a Schopenhauer gone to seed. I think I know why Bukowski got so little respect from literary types and contemporary poets. You see Hank was a MAN and an ADULT, and your literary types have a basic problem with both manhood and adulthood....

Last Will & Testament

The title says it all really; these were Buk's last earth poems (I know tons of his books have been released posthumously), and some of his best writing ever. A true masterpiece, at times surprisingly tender, with Buk at his topmost. One of my favorites (and I've read them all) and a great place for those new to Buk to start.

This Book Will Change Your Life

This book is Bukowski at his brilliant best, talking straight from experience about the life of a bum alcoholic poet. When I first read this book, I was eleven years old and had never heard of Bukowski or read anything of this sort, or any poetry. It was like the book cast a spell on me. I could not stop reading. I remember staying up all hours of the night, reading this book with a flashlight, frantically turning the pages, hoping it would go on forever. It spoke to me on an intimate lever that no school-assigned swill ever had. I grabbed me by my soul and dragged me down into a beautiful abbyss which I have not left to this day.After reading this book, you will never be the same again.
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