•When Bukowski waves•

When I write avoiding
interference of my mind
listening nothing
then it happens,
that I seriously look how segregated I'm.
Observing deeply
penning each of 'em down
and slowly,
slowly Bukowski waves
from opposite window
telling how his home city
was not his inspiration
but a home where he settled as a point.
//Caption

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Words that started falling like Autumn's leaf sounded like your name and asked about the last time we met. They are here again starting to feel like home and ready to free me.

The red of chinar has its colour from your eyes. It distracts me for a moment and in the next one it pushes me to think about all those times when we both left each other but barely moved on.

On some afternoons I play your voice notes on my new speakers that I bought after you left and try to think if yours is still my favorite voice. Bukowski healed me on New year's Eve but also tricked me into believing more about love and less about the pain.

-

I had been
in and out of
rehab for so long,
but my love
wasn't
gone.

I was addicted
to her like
a junkie to crack,
a whore to money,
an outlaw to
illicit happiness.

In simple,
like
Bukowski to
beer.

-

How to write a poem like Bukowski


Get drunk
(call imagination!)
feel lost it
get fucked up
use slangs
coin yourself
go colloquial
write your heart out
as if you were talking
last time on this planet.

-

When I decayed all alone
in a dark room
capturing a queue of ants
from the dark corners of my eyes....
// In caption//

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An eerie sadness descends and ubiquitously sprawl in the space. All the hues of the unsettling ambiance- the misty air, the fog and thaw heightened the settled melancholy making the heart sink in the chasm of melancholy reminiscing broken promises and brittle vows. December comes with melancholy.

-

The Genius of the Crowd

by Charles Bukowski

P.S. I am short of imagination, reading more nowadays, came through this. Enjoy ! 🙌😎

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If Bukowski does not move you
rest assured, for when the devil comes
he'll have nothing to claim.

-

"You have been reading lots of Bukowski," she said.

"Yes."

"Don't read him."

"Why?"

"Because he was crazy and he will make you one."

"Some people never go crazy, What truly horrible lives they must lead."

"Goddamit! Will you stop quoting him?!"

"Okay, you don't want me to write love poems like him?"

"No, I don't want you to write love poems at all."

"You're weird."

"And you're crazy."

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अधूरा लेखन

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