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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Bukowski's Beer

BEER by Charles Bukowski from NERDO on Vimeo.

BEER is a free interpretation of the poetry “Beer” from Charles Bukowski.
The composition is a manifesto of the author’s way of life, this is why we decided to go inside the author’s mind, and it is not a safe journey.
A brain solo without filter, a tale of ordinary madness, showing how much loneliness and decadence can be hidden inside a genius mind.

Directed by - NERDO
Art Direction - Daniele Gavatorta
Coordination - Diego Pizziconi
Animation - Daniele Gavatorta / Simone Cirillo / Milena Tipaldo / Erik Righetti / Alessandro Durando
Original Music & Sound Design - Enrico Ascoli
Voice Over - David Wayne Callahan
Recording Engineer - Andrea Pestarino

 

I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.

well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.

Charles Bukowski - Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You...

we have everything and we have nothing 
and some men do it in churches 
and some men do it by tearing butterflies 
in half 
and some men do it in Palm Springs 
laying it into butterblondes 
with Cadillac souls 
Cadillacs and butterflies 
nothing and everything, 
the face melting down to the last puff 
in a cellar in Corpus Christi. 
there's something for the touts, the nuns, 
the grocery clerks and you . . . 
something at 8 a.m., something in the library 
something in the river, 
everything and nothing. 
in the slaughterhouse it comes running along 
the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it -- 
one 
two 
three 
and then you've got it, $200 worth of dead 
meat, its bones against your bones 
something and nothing. 
it's always early enough to die and 
it's always too late, 
and the drill of blood in the basin white 
it tells you nothing at all 
and the gravediggers playing poker over 
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass 
to dismiss the frost . . . 
they tell you nothing at all. 

we have everything and we have nothing -- 
days with glass edges and the impossible stink 
of river moss -- worse than shit; 
checkerboard days of moves and countermoves, 
fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as 
in victory; slow days like mules 
humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed 
up a road where a madman sits waiting among 
bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey 
grey. 
good days too of wine and shouting, fights 
in alleys, fat legs of women striving around 
your bowels buried in moans, 
the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering 
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground 
telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves 
that robbed you. 
days when children say funny and brilliant things 
like savages trying to send you a message through 
their bodies while their bodies are still 
alive enough to transmit and feel and run up 
and down without locks and paychecks and 
ideals and possessions and beetle-like 
opinions. 
days when you can cry all day long in 
a green room with the door locked, days 
when you can laugh at the breadman 
because his legs are too long, days 
of looking at hedges . . . 

and nothing, and nothing, the days of 
the bosses, yellow men 
with bad breath and big feet, men 
who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk 
as if melody had never been invented, men 
who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and 
profit, men with expensive wives they possess 
like 60 acres of ground to be drilled 
or shown-off or to be walled away from 
the incompetent, men who'd kill you 
because they're crazy and justify it because 
it's the law, men who stand in front of 
windows 30 feet wide and see nothing, 
men with luxury yachts who can sail around 
the world and yet never get out of their vest 
pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men 
like slugs, and not as good . . . 
and nothing, getting your last paycheck 
at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an 
aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a 
barbershop, at a job you didn't want 
anyway. 
income tax, sickness, servility, broken 
arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing 
come out like an old pillow. 

we have everything and we have nothing. 
some do it well enough for a while and 
then give way. fame gets them or disgust 
or age or lack of proper diet or ink 
across the eyes or children in college 
or new cars or broken backs while skiing 
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives 
or just natural change and decay -- 
the man you knew yesterday hooking 
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and 
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now 
just something under a sheet or a cross 
or a stone or under an easy delusion, 
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a 
briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all 
the ones you thought would never go. 

days like this. like your day today. 
maybe the rain on the window trying to 
get through to you. what do you see today? 
what is it? where are you? the best 
days are sometimes the first, sometimes 
the middle and even sometimes the last. 
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in 
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in 
wax museums frozen into their best sterility 
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the 
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for 
breakfast the coffee hot enough you 
know your tongue is still there, three 
geraniums outside a window, trying to be 
red and trying to be pink and trying to be 
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women 
cry, no wonder the mules don't want 
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room 
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more 
good day. a little bit of it. and as 
the nurses come out of the building after 
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses 
with different names and different places 
to go -- walking across the lawn, some of them 
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a 
hot bath, some of them want a man, some 
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough 
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges 
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of 
tissue paper. 

in the most decent sometimes sun 
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns 
and the canned sound of old battleplanes 
and if you go inside and run your finger 
along the window ledge you'll find 
dirt, maybe even earth. 
and if you look out the window 
there will be the day, and as you 
get older you'll keep looking 
keep looking 
sucking your tongue in a little 
ah ah no no maybe 

some do it naturally 
some obscenely 
everywhere. 

Charles Bukowski - Me

women don't know how to love,
she told me.
you know how to love
but women just want to
leech.
I know this because I'm a
woman.

 

hahaha, I laughed.

 

so don't worry about your breakup
with Susan
because she'll just leech onto
somebody else.

 

we talked awhile longer
then I said goodbye
hungup
went into the crapper and
took a good beershit
mainly thinking, well,
I'm still alive
and have the ability to expel
wastes from my body.
and poems.
and as long as that's happening
I have the ability to handle
betrayal
loneliness
hangnail
clap
and the economic reports in the
financial section.

 

with that
I stood up
wiped
flushed
then thought:
it's true:
I know how to love.

 

I pulled up my pants and walked
into the other room.

Charles Bukowski - Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

 

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

 

nobody ever finds
the one.

 

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

 

nothing else
fills.

Charles Bukowski - Don't Forget

there is always somebody or something
waiting for you,
something stronger, more intelligent,
more evil, more kind, more durable,
something bigger, something better,
something worse, something with
eyes like the tiger, jaws like the shark,
something crazier than crazy,
saner than sane,
there is always something or somebody
waiting for you
as you put on your shoes
or as you sleep
or as you empty a garbage can
or pet your cat
or brush your teeth
or celebrate a holiday
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you.

 

keep this fully in mind
so that when it happens
you will be as ready as possible.

 

meanwhile, a good day to
you
if you are still there.
I think that I am---
I just burnt my fingers on
this
cigarette.

Charles Bukowski - The Laughing Heart

Read by Tom Waits:



your life is your life
don't let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can't beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Charles Bukowski - Let It Enfold You

either peace or happiness,

let it enfold you

 

when i was a young man

I felt these things were

dumb,unsophisticated.

I had bad blood,a twisted

mind, a pecarious

upbringing.

 

I was hard as granite,I

leered at the 

sun.

I trusted no man and

especially no

woman.

 

I was living a hell in

small rooms, I broke

things, smashed things,

walked through glass,

cursed.

I challenged everything,

was continually being

evicted,jailed,in and

out of fights,in and aout

of my mind.

women were something

to screw and rail

at,i had no male

freinds,

 

I changed jobs and

cities,I hated holidays,

babies,history,

newspapers, museums,

grandmothers,

marriage, movies,

spiders, garbagemen,

english accents,spain,

france,italy,walnuts and

the color 

orange.

algebra angred me,

opera sickened me,

charlie chaplin was a

fake

and flowers were for

pansies.

 

peace an happiness to me

were signs of

inferiority,

tenants of the weak

an

addled

mind.

 

but as I went on with

my alley fights,

my suicidal years,

my passage through

any number of 

women-it gradually

began to occur to

me

that I wasn't diffrent

 

from the

others, I was the same,

 

they were all fulsome

with hatred,

glossed over with petty

greivances,

the men I fought in

alleys had hearts of stone.

everybody was nudging,

inching, cheating for

some insignificant

advantage,

the lie was the

weapon and the

plot was

emptey,

darkness was the

dictator.

 

cautiously, I allowed

myself to feel good

at times.

I found moments of 

peace in cheap

rooms

just staring at the 

knobs of some

dresser

or listening to the

rain in the 

dark.

the less i needed

the better i 

felt.

 

maybe the other life had worn me 

down.

I no longer found

glamour

in topping somebody

in conversation.

or in mounting the

body of some poor

drunken female

whose life had 

slipped away into 

sorrow.

 

I could never accept

life as it was,

i could never gobble 

down all its

poisons

but there were parts,

tenous magic parts

open for the

asking.

 

I re formulated

I don't know when,

date,time,all

that

but the change

occured.

something in me

relaxed, smoothed

out.

i no longer had to 

prove that i was a 

man,

 

I did'nt have to prove

anything.

 

I began to see things:

coffe cups lined up

behind a counter in a 

cafe.

or a dog walking along

a sidewalk.

or the way the mouse

on my dresser top

stopped there

with its body,

its ears,

its nose,

it was fixed,

a bit of life

caught within itself

and its eyes looked 

at me

and they were

beautiful.

then- it was

gone.

 

I began to feel good,

I began to feel good

in the worst situations

and there were plenty

of those.

like say, the boss

behind his desk,

he is going to have

to fire me.

 

I've missed too many 

days.

he is dressed in a

suit, necktie, glasses,

he says, "i am going

to have to let you go"

 

"it's all right" i tell

him.

 

He must do what he

must do, he has a 

wife, a house, children.

expenses, most probably

a girlfreind.

 

I am sorry for him

he is caught.

 

I walk onto the blazing

sunshine.

the whole day is

mine

temporailiy,

anyhow.

 

(the whole world is at the

throat of the world,

everybody feels angry,

short-changed, cheated,

everybody is despondent,

dissillusioned)

 

I welcomed shots of

peace, tattered shards of

happiness.

 

I embraced that stuff

like the hottest number,

like high heels,breasts,

singing,the

works.

 

(dont get me wrong,

there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism

that overlooks all

basic problems justr for

the sake of

itself-

this is a sheild and a 

sickness.)

 

The knife got near my

throat again,

I almost turned on the

gas

again

but when the good

moments arrived

again

I did'nt fight them off

like an alley 

adversary.

I let them take me,

i luxuriated in them,

I bade them welcome

home.

I even looked into

the mirror

once having thought

myself to be

ugly,

I now liked what

I saw,almost

handsome,yes,

a bit ripped and

ragged,

scares,lumps,

odd turns,

but all in all,

not too bad,

almost handsome,

better at least than

some of those movie

star faces

like the cheeks of

a babys

butt.

 

and finally I discovered

real feelings of

others,

unhearleded,

like latley,

like this morning,

as I was leaving,

for the track,

i saw my wif in bed,

just the 

shape of

her head there

(not forgetting

centuries of the living

and the dead and

the dying,

the pyarimids,

Mozart dead

but his music still 

there in the

room, weeds growing,

the earth turning,

the toteboard waiting for

me)

I saw the shape of my

wife's head,

she so still,

i ached for her life,

just being there

under the 

covers.

 

i kissed her in the,

forehead,

got down the stairway,

got outside,

got into my marvelous

car,

fixed the seatbelt,

backed out the

drive.

feeling warm to

the fingertips,

down to my

foot on the gas

pedal,

I entered the world

once

more,

drove down the 

hill

past the houses

full and emptey

of

people,

i saw the mailman,

honked,

he waved

back

at me.