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The people look like flowers at last : new poems

Autore: Charles Bukowski; John Martin
Editore: New York : Ecco, ©2007.
Edizione/Formato:   Libro : English : 1st edVedi tutte le edizioni e i formati
Banca dati:WorldCat
Sommario:
Synopsis: the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures; Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job as a waitress; and the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he giggled up through the soot. I walked miles through the city and recognized nothing as a giant claw ate at my stomach while the inside of my head felt airy as if I was about to go mad. it's not  Per saperne di più…
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Genere/forma: Poetry
Tipo documento: Book
Tutti gli autori / Collaboratori: Charles Bukowski; John Martin
ISBN: 9780060577070 006057707X
Numero OCLC: 94006956
Descrizione: 299 p. : port. ; 24 cm.
Contenuti: 1: --
For they had things to say --
Evening class, 20 years later --
Snow of Italy --
Near a plate glass window --
Beef tongue --
1930s --
People as flowers --
Acceptance --
Life at the PO --
Minute --
Too near the slaughterhouse --
Future congressman --
Stranger in a strange city --
Just another wino --
It is not much --
Bull --
People, no --
You might as well kiss your ass goodbye --
Purple glow --
One thousand dollars --
Grip the dark --
Dwarf with a punch --
Elephants of Vietnam --
Breakfast --
Inverted love song --
Salty dogs --
Brainless eyes --
Unbelievable --
War and peace --
Harder you try --
2: --
All the little girls --
No more of those young men --
Legs --
Jane's shoes --
Rimbaud be damned --
Bewitched in New York --
Don't worry, baby, I'll get it --
Telephone message machine --
That nice girl who came in to change the sheets --
Agreement on Tchaikovsky --
Love song to the woman I saw Wednesday at the racetrack --
Possession --
Six --
Man mowing the lawn across the way from me --
Girl outside --
Chicken --
Ancient love --
Match point --
I also like to look at ceilings --
No Cagney, me --
Soup, cosmos and tears --
Peacock or bell --
Purple and black --
Fulfillment --
Yours --
Kissing me away --
Goodbye, my love --
Heat --
Police helicopter --
Ah --
Of course --
Dream, the dream --
Note on the tigress --
3: --
Poem for my daughter --
Sheets --
Sick leave --
My father --
Old woman --
What made you lose your inspiration? --
Another poem about a drunk and then I'll let you go --
Dead dog --
I live in a neighborhood of murder --
Bombing of Berlin --
All right, Camus --
Quits --
Adolf --
Anarchists --
Perfect white teeth --
4 blocks --
You can't force your way through the eye of the needle --
Two kinds of hell --
My faithful Indian servant --
Plausible finish --
Another one of my critics --
Fog --
Free? --
Imported punch --
It was an underwood --
Creation coffin --
7 horse --
Suicide --
Overcast --
Final word --
Fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces --
After receiving a contributor's copy --
Poor night --
You write many poems about death --
4: --
Dog --
Hatred for Hemingway --
Looking at the cat's balls --
Contributors' notes --
On beer cans and sugar cartons --
Pay your rent or get out --
Note on a door knocker --
American flag shirt --
Age --
Dogs bark knives --
Hog in the hedge --
I never bring my wife --
Interview at 70 --
2 views --
Van Gogh and 9 innings --
9 am --
Lousy day --
Sadness in the air --
Great debate --
Our deep sleep --
Sorry history of myself --
Law --
Great writer --
Gigantic thirst --
Eulogies --
Residue --
1990 special --
Passage --
Most dark night in April --
Sun coming down.
Responsabilità: Charles Bukowski ; edited by John Martin.
Maggiori informazioni:

Abstract:

Synopsis: the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures; Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job as a waitress; and the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he giggled up through the soot. I walked miles through the city and recognized nothing as a giant claw ate at my stomach while the inside of my head felt airy as if I was about to go mad. it's not so much that nothing means anything but more than it keeps meaning nothing, there's no release, just gurus and self-appointed gods and hucksters. the more people say, the less there is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust. -from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces".

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