Working Class Generation Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The Lost and Forgotten

Working Class Generation.

We who left school in 1968 without

Honours and degrees, had dreams when

We filled factories and building sites

With youthful laughter which soon

Stopped when run over by the juggernaut

Of life, marriage and a high rise flat.

Later when work dried up, no skills no

Education and too old for a new job,

Divorce, queuing at the dole a flight

Into booze, walking the streets of rue,

Fuck it all and waiting for tomorrow.

Lady of Mercy, only one dream left,

That of coming up on the pool, quid’s

In, a round of drinks for the mates in

The pub and self-respect; we know it

Won’t happen but dream we must, or

Be flotsam in streets of regrets where

It’s always gloomy and eyes have lost

The sheen of hope.

***

Another Day Poem by Charles Bukowski

Another Day Poem by Charles Bukowski

Another Day Poem by Charles Bukowski

Another Day

Charles Bukowski

having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she’s dumpy. her ass is too big.
she radiates kindess and sympathy.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you’ll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostiches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back eith the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
snd you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it’s a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.

you begin eating the sandwhich.

it’s something.
it’s a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus,look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he’s
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pivk up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they’re best i guess.
it’s an unbearably hot day.
there’s a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.

you start the engine.

***

Sit in a Cubicle Poem by David Michael Jackson

VE VURK ‘TIL VE DROP
can we civilize the salamander
make him
sit in a cubicle
for eight hours
exactly
The animals don’t stand for any of that crap
my dog knows what is important
it is important to sniff at that bush
I
on the other hand
have trouble with
the importance of things
and other people
like me who
don’t allow themselves time to sniff
the air for
anything really
important
really
other people like me
don’t have time for that bush
unless
it is landscaped into our orderly little lives like
the trees in our yard which are
planted just so
and
made to look just so
like
that
was
important
but
my dog knows what is important
and I,
we
unfortunately
have
forgotten

– David Jackson

***