We are eaten up by nothing — Bukowski

Acrylic, pen, watercolour and acrylic wash on canvas.

Acrylic, pen, watercolour and acrylic wash on canvas.

So I might have lied. In my last post I said that “Nobody Raise Your Voices” would be my last piece before the show (which is tomorrow). Ok! I couldn’t keep my hands away from the paint.

bukowski2

I took the classic photo of Bukowski and added some mail — he worked at a post office.

The painting turned out! I think it would have to be one of my favourites. What a great way to end the race leading up to the show (at least the painting side of it all).

A lot of people say that Bukowski was a terrible person. I’m sure he had his flaws (soooo many flaws), but there is a charming quality to his writing. It is truthful and hard, but there is also a warmth to it.

Maybe with all of my free time (now that I won’t be painting as much), I’ll have to read more of Bukowski.

To demonstrate the warmth of his writing I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems.

Raw With Love

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won’t blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won’t use it
yet.

–Charles Bukowski

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This entry was published on Wednesday, June 25, 2014 at 8:54 pm. It’s filed under Artwork and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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