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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.