Charles Bukowski, Alone With Everybody
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- Опубликовано: 10 мар 2024
- Song ➝ anatu - bleach
Footage Credits ➝ Pexels (Joshua Woronieki, Mikhail Nilov, Merk Media, etc.)
● About the Project ●
Experimental video made for class. If the video looks a bit blurry that's because I used a bit of grain on them. A lot of additive dissolve and gradient used for the background.
⯆ Resources ⯆
anatu - bleach ➝ • anatu - bleach
anatu soundcloud ➝ / anatu
Alone with Everybody (Read by Tom O'bedlam) ➝ • Alone With Everybody b... 
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Speaks to my soul
Pure talent 💙🤍🖤
subscribed.. because i need more..
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Really well done!
Cheers! Thanks for watching!
Wow
DAMnnn!!! Fire.
Thanks for watching!
awesome poem but fucking crap music
Absolute rubbish, Bukowski wasn't a poet, he was a fake and all the people who pretend to understand what the drivel he wrote meant are just petty Sophists, they are the type that stand staring at abstract paintings in an art gallery and explain to everyone around them what they think the art means, they wax lyrical over the attributes of one glass of wine over another, in other words they are snobs trying to impress others. They shouldn't choose Bukowski as a subject because his work was just plain pathetic.
It's no different than what you are here doing, trying to sound like your so much smarter then them by putting down his writing but you didn't give a single reason for this opinion of yours, it seems to me like something you just heard someone else say and now you going around repeating it cause you think it makes you better then other people but I'll bet you can't explain why you think this about him
@@lonsalerno2441 Bukowski's ramblings are not poetry, poetry has rhythm and rhyme, tells a story or has a moral, his work is just subjective prose and it has different meanings for different people hearing it, there's no substance, mostly it's just introspective misery and negativity. My worst poetry is far better than anything Bukowski wrote. E.G.
FOREVER LOST - Lili
I sat upon a lonely beach, watched the gulls and crabs devour
The remains of one large man, no clothes, no eyes, one hand
As I enjoyed the morning sun, the waves had washed him clean
I lazed there for a little while and then began to dream
And wondered of his story, his sad demise upon the sand. -
I slowly woke when day had cooled and found I wasn’t alone
A Spectre sat at my right side and smiled at my surprise
I was a wanderer he said, a Tramp, a Sailor wild
And I pray the sea will take me and scatter all my bones
I’ll tell the story of my murder, no profit now in lies
For I was just a Gypsy, stolen from my tribe as child. -
Sunken deep within the mire of crime, four lads with time to kill
And kill we did whenever, we found the chance of coin
The guilty and the innocent, none spared or conscience felt
The hand of Satan on my shoulder, the tempest in my loins
But treachery’s around us all and treachery was dealt
When I stole within the clan, a wench I didn’t own.-
I lost my eyes, I lost my hand, I’m destined now to roam
The lonely shore for evermore, no life, no friends, no hand
He wandered back to where his form lay rotting on the sand
Sometimes I hear a wailing, from that Spectre in the foam
He cannot see, he can’t be free, his anger, hate demand
The death of any stranger who happens by his home. -
The beach looks so inviting for swimmers to its shore
Currents deep and fast, take the unwary to the deep
Every Summer takes its toll, the Spectre calls for more
The warning signs upon the sand, only tempt the brave
Dragged out to sea among the fish, reward eternal sleep
There’ll be no sleep for the vagabond, the sand his lonely grave.
@Lili-Benovent I think for many people, Bukowski's poems can be a hit or miss. And I've to disagree, because being a Sophist is not a bad way a poet can be perceived.
Personally I only understand a handful of Bukowski's poems, but the ones that I liked I feel punch you in the guts.
@@lonsalerno2441 I did reply to you, there must be a Bukowski fan amongst the moderators at RUclips because my reply was deleted.
I stated that Bukowski wasn't a poet, at best he narrated dismal introspective prose which is so subjective it could mean anything to anybody. Good poetry has rhythm and rhyme, it tells a story, projects a moral or is just for entertainment, Bukowski's rambling has none of these.
He likes to write about life on the streets but life on the streets is different for people who have a choice or are wealthy such as Bukowski.
This is my poem about reality for a lot of people today.
DIFFERENT EYES Lili
The rat infested holes in which we Derros dwell
Fighting for our daily bread with us as much as them
For others looking at our lives perceived as living Hell
If we can find an alley, with a corner safe and dry
Then we are Kings for just a night and we don’t question why
We’re creatures of the shadows from which existence stems. -
The city is a cruel Lord and all we have is time
There’ll be no hand to lift us up, no help to find a bed
We waste our time wandering, with others of our kind
Talking dreams, opportunity, reality and crime
And those among us jackals, put their brothers on the spike
Promise bliss for just a time, escape from life, sublime. -
It’s all our fault we are told, by people who don’t know
Just get a job and buy a house but none will ever employ
A black who can’t afford to eat, a white who’s tired and slow
For this is what the streets give us and Winter is the worst
The frozen parks, incessant rain, back in our holes we go
We try the subway, bus stations; move on, the middle class comes first. -
Charity comes with a hook, the drone of pray to God
We’ll give a little, not a lot, endeavour to change your life
To one of fierce obedience to Jesus in the sky
And if you let us take control for one small meal a day
You’ll struggle on and on through life and then one day you’ll die
A mansion awaits you in the clouds, if you pray and pray and pray. -
But Spring brings hope, all Nature’s good, to creatures all awake
Nature provides enough to eat, a nest a tree a cave
But man must find their own abode and man exploits the poor
So back into the tents on streets us Derros slink once more
And every day it seems there’s more, one paycheck from the street
This lucky country prosperous once, now greed’s a festering sore.
@@Lili-Benovent good poetry has rythm and rhyme, go back to kindergarden fool, poetry makes you feel, rules are meant to be broken, his poetry falls into the category of free verse, and if you think Bukowski is subjective, you are dense. 🤓 even poems with clear narratives can be interpreted differently. The power of poetry often lies in its ability to evoke emotions and personal connections. but but poetry needs a story and a morality, literal winnieh the pooh level expectations, dont even bother answering with a wall of text, because I know it will be rubbish.