Surfing, Skateboarding, Music, Photography, Travel, Culture and general antics of the youth on the run.

Dear Youth Read Bukowski – it’s like a text message, I swear

Lauren Hastings What Youth dear youth
01.24.13 – TAGS: ,

I’m not going to lie. The boys are busy at the moment. Half of us are literally on airplanes to Africa, another half just got home from a wedge hunt in eastern Australia, and the other half  (yeah, we are one and a half to make a whole), are on deadline making What Youth Issue 3 as fucking wild as we can. And wild it will be. We’ve got _______  ______________ candidly interviewing _______ __________. We’ve got a trip to _______________. And a trip to ___________ with ___________ and _____________. A fashion shoot with — OK, I’ll spill the beans on this one because it’s on Instagram and shit: Jason Lee Parry, a super rad and ridiculously talented photographer from Oregon has shot sexy, crazy, beautiful, wild photos for us with the gorgeous, freewheeling pixie Lauren Hastings. Google away my friends. And to be honest, I’m going to stop there, because, like I said, the boys are busy and until the rest of the team lands, we promised we wouldn’t spill anymore.

In the meantime, I’ve recently come to the realization that this is all the reading any of us really have time for. But it is literature — well poetry — let’s call it modern literature because our attention spans are tweaked, but even if you have an iPhone and all those apps and games and social networks, I think you actually might be able to get into Charles Bukowski poetry. And look, the guy is vulgar, alcoholic and a great big asshole but he has a heart of gold with a bluebird perched on top trying to sort him out.

Give the guy’s poetry a read. There are so many books of poetry of his out there, and once you start you can’t stop. They’re usually short, intense and gentle. Yep, gentle. The best example I could find for your entertainment today is this little classic. —Travis

 

some people

some people never go crazy.

me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind the couch

for 3 or 4 days.

they’ll find me there.

it’s Cherub they’ll say, and

they pour wine down my throat

rub my chest

sprinkle me with oils.

 then, I’ll rise with a roar,

rant, rage —

curse them and the universe

as I send them scattering over the

lawn.

I’ll feel much better,

sit down to toast and eggs,

hum a little tune,

suddenly become as lovable as a

pink

overfed whale.

 

some people never go crazy.

what truly horrible lives

they must lead.

— Charles Bukowski

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