He started writing at the age of thirty-eight and most of his early poems were about starting late, being a late bloomer He said he'd spent those thirty-eight years figuring out what not to be and in the process of figuring that out he did a lot of living changed countless jobs and locations and lovers enemies customs religions political views philosophies opinions and now it was time to document all that with as little fiction added as possible he began and went on fueled by the saying "Since I started so late I owe it to myself to keep going." He kept going And the young fresh writers the budding talents the prodigies shit-talked him for being a delirious old fool who mistook fiction for reality And they rated and reviewed his works and referred to them as being dull garbage that belonged into the trash can "Oh, poor fool," they said. "He's just trying to sell the world bald cats. That's what he's trying to do. He strips them of fur, of the beauty that makes cats desirable, lovable. Behold, his works are so raw, the writing so simple, so lazy and devoid of any description. He tells the reader that there are curtains before the window but fails to show what color, shape, smell, effectiveness of keeping the sunlight away from a housewife's eyes while she examines the cucumbers brought in with the last trip to the grocery store. Raw and dry that's how he is raw and dry and that deems his works not worthy of our attention. Though we are a bit sorry for the old fool. No matter what the voices in his head told him there is such a thing as being too late to begin and this is it. See? He's like an eighty year old playing hockey with the pros, athletes in their prime." What those who haven't done enough living fail to realize is that in this world there is a market for literally anything and everything. And a market you can't find is just a market that has but to be started and the customers will come. There are lots of people who love bald cats and even prefer them over the furry ones. No market has ever died because of the customer only because of the merchant. As long as you're that merchant who doesn't give up you'll sell your stuff eventually
really liking your work & this one rings a bell _ I get similar(ish) comments from the guardians of lyrical (bourgeois) purity – have you ever read Miroslav Holub? I think you’d like him!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Will definitely check him out!
Thanks •ᴗ•
LikeLike
Very deep and some parts are hilariously funny. Bravo!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Jay (๑>◡<๑)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very touching
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you (。◕‿‿◕。)
LikeLike
it’s interesting – he writes about the reality he has experienced on the one hand, but on the other hand it is perceived as “bald cats” by some others, which are not a common occurrence in nature.
Also – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bukowski
LikeLiked by 1 person
Indeed 🙂
It’s old Buk I had in mind when writing this one. The part with “since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue” is of course from one of his letters (sent to his publisher if I remember correctly).
LikeLiked by 1 person
I wrote this, inspired by him: https://skepticskaddish.com/2020/06/05/bukowski-or-runoff/
LikeLiked by 1 person
Good shit chief
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks (̿▀̿ ̿Ĺ̯̿̿▀̿ ̿)̄
LikeLike
I owe it to myself to keep going 👏
LikeLiked by 1 person
I always come back to this saying (^_^)
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love this poem, with its spare, knowing imagery.
Gwen.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Gwen ฅ(≈●ܫ●≈)
LikeLiked by 1 person
A poem reminiscent of a mental opium.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hahah, guess that’s what it is, indeed
(  ̄ ω ̄)
LikeLike