Charles Bukowski, �The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills�
Is anybody as irritated as I am that they have to slog through reams and reams of Bukowski�s poetry just to find the occasional short story?
No?
I guess it�s just me then.
See, the problem is, some of the books will say stories and poems, but for the most part you just have to look. And since I can�t figure out what (if any) kind of iambic pentameter or whatever it is that poetry gages itself by, I usually end up reading it, thinking it is actually a story, but with weird breaks in the line.
But then I notice that there�s no point and way too many metaphors, and I realize that I�ve been reading poetry for the last 25 pages.
Ick.
I feel dirty. (By the way, you can�t imagine how horrified I was to find that most of these poetry yokels actually have a structure they have to abide by when they think up these pieces of garbage.)
I think of stuff like this the same way I think of Henry Rollins. When either of them tells a story, for the most part it is funny, interesting, and sometimes, even poignant. But reduce the sheer verbosity of the short story structure, and it all turns to shit.
Pretentious shit.
Annoying shit.
And worst of all, it�s goofy shit.
