poem

8 count

by Charles Bukowski

from my bed

I watch

3 birds

on a telephone

wire.

one flies

off.

then

another.

one is left,

then

it too

is gone.

my typewriter is

tombstone

still.

and I am

reduced to bird

watching.

just thought I'd

let you

know,

fucker.

This is my poem. I really enjoy Charles Bukowski's poetry even though he is known for being an asshole, a drunk, and a misogynist. His poems are just so honest and simple.
This poem is about his writer's block, something that frequently plagued him. In his other poems he often references his publisher and how he hated him and his deadlines, so it's safe to assume this poem is directed towards his publisher.
Although the imagery in this poem is sparse it is powerful. My plan for this project is to design three or four works in illustrator, either images of Bukowski typing or doing the things he'd rather be doing, and print them on (hopefully) handmade paper. Then I'm going to put them in a typewriter I have. The typewriter will have several keys missing, and a wire bird standing on top, as if the birds have been picking at his typewriter while Bukowski's been picking his brain. I also want to have several other wires present, either on the wall behind the typewriter or somehow on the typewriter to abstractly represent telephone wires.