Meat Poetry!?

I was convinced that the subject of meat poetry was just absurd enough to be non-existent, but after a little googling I discovered that “meat poetry”is a genre apparently introduced by Bukowski.  What an exciting discovery.  I intend to investigate this wierdness until I’m nauseous.  I like meat.  I like poetry.  I like wierdness. I even like Bukowski. It’s a win, win, win!  Let’s look at an example:

who in the hell is Tom Jones?

by Charles Bukowski

I tried to explain.

I was shacked with a

24 year old girl from

New York City for

two weeks   about

the time of the garbage

strike out there, and

one night my 34 year

old woman arrived and

she said, “I want to see

my rival.” she did

and then she said, “o,

you’re a cute little thing!”

next I knew there was a

screech of wildcats—

such screaming and scratch-

ing, wounded animal moans,

blood and piss . . .

I was drunk and in my

shorts. I tried to

separate them and fell,

wrenched my knee. then

they were through the screen

door and down the walk

and out in the street.

squadcars full of cops

arrived. a police heli-

copter circled overhead.

I stood in the bathroom

and grinned in the mirror.

it’s not often at the age

of 55 that such splendid

things occur.

better than the Watts

riots.

the 34 year old

came back in. she had

pissed all over her-

self and her clothing

was torn and she was

followed by 2 cops who

wanted to know why.

pulling up my shorts

I tried to explain

Awesome!   A drunken cat fight–a garbage strike–wounded animal moans, blood and piss, such splendid things happening at at age 55.  Clearly everyone in this vignette is despicable and ugly, but I think I love this can of nuts. 

Please don’t explain…

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