Love poems

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Three Oranges

© Charles Bukowski

first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
"what is it?"
"it's called Love For Three Oranges,"

40,000

© Charles Bukowski

at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet

Trapped

© Charles Bukowski

don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin:
don't undress the mannequin
you might find

Cows In Art Class

© Charles Bukowski

good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen

Hot

© Charles Bukowski

she was hot, she was so hot
I didn't want anybody else to have her,
and if I didn't get home on time
she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-

For Jane

© Charles Bukowski

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

Consummation Of Grief

© Charles Bukowski

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water

O, We Are The Outcasts

© Charles Bukowski

ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

Yes Yes

© Charles Bukowski

when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountians and the sea and fire at the same time

Confession

© Charles Bukowski

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

Death Wants More Death

© Charles Bukowski

death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-

The Night I Was Going To Die

© Charles Bukowski

the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside

George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His
dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash
from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing

The Shower

© Charles Bukowski

we like to shower afterwards
(I like the water hotter than she)
and her face is always soft and peaceful
and she'll watch me first

Here I Am ...

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man

For Jane: With All The Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once

The Most Beautiful Woman In Town

Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the most beautiful girl
in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a snake-like and fiery body with eyes
to go with it. Cass was fluid moving fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that
would not hold her. Her hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her

The Genius Of The Crowd

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and

I'm In Love

she's young, she said,
but look at me,
I have pretty ankles,
and look at my wrists, I have pretty