I hadn't read Bukowski in years when I stumbled upon this posthumous collection of his poems in the library and decided to pick it up to be read in the shitter, which is a very good environment for reading the man I must say.
I was a tad surprised to find that from all the poems I've read from him, this collection included easily some of his best. No surprises here of course for anybody who's read even a bit of him, but the poems are well-composed, they flow well in their honest simplicity, and have a good sense of humor and sympathy in them for all of those who haven't had it that easy – a sympathy that by rule absolutely never escalates to pity. Bukowski's reflections and meditations about his upcoming death are worth paying attention to, and it's beautiful to see how it often moves even the man himself in trying his wings in a bit more abstract, lyrical expression, that generally works well also. Even though his style is like the bedrock itself in its staticness, not that it wouldn't flow but in the sense that it certainly doesn't change, the collection still stays surprisingly fresh and unrepetitive throughout.
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