Charles Bukowski – Show Biz

I can't have it
and you can't have it
and we won't
get it

so don't bet on it
or even think about
it

just get out of bed
each morning

wash
shave
clothe
yourself
and go out into
it

because
outside of that
all that's left is
suicide and
madness

so you just
can't
expect too much

you can't even
expect

so what you do
is
work from a modest
minimal
base

like when you
walk outside
be glad your car
might possibly
be there

and if it is-
that the tires
aren't
flat

then you get
in
and if it
starts--you
start.

and
it's the damndest
movie
you've ever
seen
because
you're
in it--

low budget
and
4 billion
critics

and the longest
run
you ever hope
for
is

one
day

Thomas Stearns Eliot – Eyes That Last I Saw In Tears

Eyes that last I saw in tears

Through division

Here in death's dream kingdom

The golden vision reappears

I see the eyes but not the tears

This is my affliction

This is my affliction

Eyes I shall not see again

Eyes of decision

Eyes I shall not see unless

At the door of death's other kingdom

Where, as in this,

The eyes outlast a little while

A little while outlast the tears

And hold us in derision.

John Keats – To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or, by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

John Keats – To…

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell,

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise:

But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;

I am no happy shepherd of the dell

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses

When steeped in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

Rudyard Kipling – The Bell Buoy

They christened my brother of old—

   And a saintly name he bears—

They gave him his place to hold

   At the head of the belfry-stairs,

   Where the minster-towers stand

And the breeding kestrels cry.

   Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I !

In the flush of the hot June prime,

   O’er sleek flood-tides afire,

I hear him hurry the chime

   To the bidding of checked Desire;

   Till the sweated ringers tire

And the wild bob-majors die.

   Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown—

   When the greasy wind-rack lowers—

Apart and at peace and alone,

   He counts the changeless hours.

   He wars with darkling Powers

(I war with, a darkling sea);

   Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray,

   There was never a hand to toll,

When they made me guard of the bay,

   And moored me over the shoal.

   I rock, I reel, and I roll—

My four great hammers ply—

   Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,

   The fog-bank glides unguessed,

The seaward lights are veiled,

   The spent deep feigns her rest:

   But my ear is laid to her breast,

I lift to the swell—I cry!

   Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night

   I thrill to the nearing screw;

I turn in the clearing light

   And I call to the drowsy crew;

   And the mud boils foul and blue

As the blind bow backs away.

   Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim,

   The bursting spray-heads freeze,

I gather on crown and rim

   The grey, grained ice of the seas,

   Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,

The plunging colliers lie.

   Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow,

   Or the black of the inky sleet,

The lanterns gather and grow,

   And I look for the homeward fleet.

   Rattle of block and sheet—

‘Ready about—stand by!’

   Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing

   In the rip of the racing tide,

By the gates of doom I sing,

   On the horns of death I ride.

   A ship-length overside,

Between the course and the sand,

   Fretted and bound I bide

             Peril whereof I cry.

Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

(1896)