What do you think?
Rate this book
Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit
“The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles.”—Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author
“He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”—Leonard Cohen, songwriter
Play the Piano introduces Charles Bukowski's poetry from the 1970s. He leads a life full of gambling and booze but also finds love. These poems are full of lechery and romance as he struggles to mature.
132 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 5, 1979
107 people are currently reading
4525 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
853 books29.9k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 252 reviews
March 30, 2011
Bukowski the fiction writer and Bukowski the poet always seemed to be two different people. I've read a handful of his poems over the years and recognized a fire in him that is totally lacking from his novel work. In his poems, there lies a confident drunk, asleep at the wheel of life, seamlessly floating on by, content with distraction and apathy. In his fiction, there's an emptiness that's so passive, it's hardly a story at all.
This is the first volume of his poetry that I've read from start to finish and, at points, it was like reading poetry for the first time and realizing what the medium is capable of. Other times, it was like listening to someone's drunk grandfather repeat what he did yesterday in his sad life. Bukowski writes about the same thing many times over and he wants you to know that he drinks, fucks, gambles and doesn't care about any of it.
He never comes off as arrogant, which someone younger would maybe try. Instead, he lists his vices as a laundry list with no power to them, as if they're just there to keep him going. He's no tortured artist. He's just a man getting by, too tired to regret in large doses. He's one long shrug, spouting off some of the most true things you've ever known.
Some poems are just small things he observed, so small that you're mad that he wrote a poem about it. Other poems have a furious passion for living a shitty life and it's brilliant. It's really hit or miss, and it's that way in blocks. It'll be three poems in a row that make you think Bukowski was given the keys of life and then it'll be three poems of Bukowski wasting your time like an old drunk at a bar.
When he's good, he's goddamn glorious. When he's bad, he's miserable.
In life and in poetry.
This is the first volume of his poetry that I've read from start to finish and, at points, it was like reading poetry for the first time and realizing what the medium is capable of. Other times, it was like listening to someone's drunk grandfather repeat what he did yesterday in his sad life. Bukowski writes about the same thing many times over and he wants you to know that he drinks, fucks, gambles and doesn't care about any of it.
He never comes off as arrogant, which someone younger would maybe try. Instead, he lists his vices as a laundry list with no power to them, as if they're just there to keep him going. He's no tortured artist. He's just a man getting by, too tired to regret in large doses. He's one long shrug, spouting off some of the most true things you've ever known.
Some poems are just small things he observed, so small that you're mad that he wrote a poem about it. Other poems have a furious passion for living a shitty life and it's brilliant. It's really hit or miss, and it's that way in blocks. It'll be three poems in a row that make you think Bukowski was given the keys of life and then it'll be three poems of Bukowski wasting your time like an old drunk at a bar.
When he's good, he's goddamn glorious. When he's bad, he's miserable.
In life and in poetry.
May 3, 2013
Unsurprisingly, I am once again floored. I finished this book in less than a day and I felt like a 3 year old who just had her lollipop taken away when it was done. I literally felt pouty that it was over. This series of poems is from the 70's and is incredibly eloquent and harsh at the same time. Each thing I read of Bukowski's is like revealing another piece of an unbearably complex puzzle. Last night I had the house to myself and had set up my netflix so I could have the first in a series of Bukowski documentaries delivered. I watched "Bukowski: Born into This" and I found myself weeping at the end. I think probably everything has been said that could be said of this magnificent old lion. Poetry is incredibly personal to me--either it moves me or it does not. I can appreciate when it's quality even if it's not my style. The poets that truly move me become part of me in some way--as if we share a secret. Though in many ways Bukowski and I could not be more different, there are things that bump together that are so powerful that they overcome any differences. I am so thrilled that his body of work is so enormous. I can't wait to read it all and then start over and read it again.
August 24, 2015
No more Bukowski for me, ever.
September 1, 2014
there is nothing to do
but drink
play the horse
bet on the poem.
i love the fact that bukowski's poems seem to tell a story, however gruesome that story may be. most of his poems revolve around alcohol/beers,
I am dying of sadness and alcohol ,
cigarettes and love. however, bukowski has a somewhat uncanny perception of love,
I have, he went on, betrayed myself with belief, deluded myself with love tricked myself with sex .
and I like it when they tell me;they are having luck with a man;luck with their life;after surviving me;they have many joys due them;I make their lives seem better after me. , but that's actually fine by me, it makes me sympathize with him more.
there was no living creature as foul as I
and all my poems were
false
but drink
play the horse
bet on the poem.
i love the fact that bukowski's poems seem to tell a story, however gruesome that story may be. most of his poems revolve around alcohol/beers,
I am dying of sadness and alcohol ,
cigarettes and love. however, bukowski has a somewhat uncanny perception of love,
I have, he went on, betrayed myself with belief, deluded myself with love tricked myself with sex .
and I like it when they tell me;they are having luck with a man;luck with their life;after surviving me;they have many joys due them;I make their lives seem better after me. , but that's actually fine by me, it makes me sympathize with him more.
there was no living creature as foul as I
and all my poems were
false
August 8, 2018
Over hyped misogynistic old drunk writes about bacon, factories, whiskey, farts, whiskey, being drunk, drinking, strippers, whiskey, his dad, his mom, and women.
how he fucked women he loved
how he fucked women he didnt love
how he didn't fuck women he loved
and how he didn't fuck women he didnt love
and don't forget that everybody farts.
if you want to read entire 3 page poems for a good line maybe, or boring short stories then this is your guy.
If a person loves Bukowski for me it's a warning sign.
how he fucked women he loved
how he fucked women he didnt love
how he didn't fuck women he loved
and how he didn't fuck women he didnt love
and don't forget that everybody farts.
if you want to read entire 3 page poems for a good line maybe, or boring short stories then this is your guy.
If a person loves Bukowski for me it's a warning sign.
August 21, 2007
I read this when I was like 14. I thought he was brilliant.... turns out, not so much
March 26, 2012
Not everything works, but when Charles Bukowski nails one, it's down.
July 21, 2018
Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit is a short and sweet collection of poems published by Charles Bukowski in 1979 containing some of his most esoteric and least offensive poems (relatively speaking, of course, and as far as I have read of his work hitherto, which really says something about this collection)—some absolute gems in this collection.
"claws of paradise"
wooden butterfly
baking soda smile
sawdust fly---
I love my belly
and the liquor store man
calls me,
"Mr. Schlitz."
the cashiers at the race track
scream,
"THE POET KNOWS!"
when I cash my tickets.
the ladies
in and out of bed
say they love me
as I walk by with wet
white feet.
albatross with drunken eyes
Popeye's dirt-stained shorts
bedbugs of Paris,
I have cleared the barricades
have mastered the
automobile
the hangover
the tears
but I know
the final doom
like any schoolboy viewing
the cat being crushed
by passing traffic.
my skull has an inch and a
half crack right at the
dome.
most of my teeth are
in front. I get
dizzy spells in supermarkets
spit blood when I drink
whiskey
and become saddened to
the point of
grief
when I think of all the
good women I have known
who have
dissolved
vanished
over trivialities:
trips to Pasadena,
children's picnics,
toothpaste caps down
the drain.
there is nothing to do
but drink
play the horse
bet on the poem
as the young girls
become women
and the machineguns
point toward me
crouched
behind walls thinner
than eyelids.
there's no defense
except all the errors
made.
meanwhile
I take showers
answer the phone
boil eggs
study motion and waste
and feel as good
as the next while
walking in the sun.
"claws of paradise"
wooden butterfly
baking soda smile
sawdust fly---
I love my belly
and the liquor store man
calls me,
"Mr. Schlitz."
the cashiers at the race track
scream,
"THE POET KNOWS!"
when I cash my tickets.
the ladies
in and out of bed
say they love me
as I walk by with wet
white feet.
albatross with drunken eyes
Popeye's dirt-stained shorts
bedbugs of Paris,
I have cleared the barricades
have mastered the
automobile
the hangover
the tears
but I know
the final doom
like any schoolboy viewing
the cat being crushed
by passing traffic.
my skull has an inch and a
half crack right at the
dome.
most of my teeth are
in front. I get
dizzy spells in supermarkets
spit blood when I drink
whiskey
and become saddened to
the point of
grief
when I think of all the
good women I have known
who have
dissolved
vanished
over trivialities:
trips to Pasadena,
children's picnics,
toothpaste caps down
the drain.
there is nothing to do
but drink
play the horse
bet on the poem
as the young girls
become women
and the machineguns
point toward me
crouched
behind walls thinner
than eyelids.
there's no defense
except all the errors
made.
meanwhile
I take showers
answer the phone
boil eggs
study motion and waste
and feel as good
as the next while
walking in the sun.
November 4, 2012
Though it's a slim volume of poetry, this book makes up for its size by packing a huge punch of brilliance. The amazing poems more than outweigh the average poems. Before picking up this book, I'd only read a few of Bukowski's poems and his novel Ham on Rye. This has definitely encouraged me to read more of his poems. Today I bought Love is a Dog From Hell, which I'm very excited to begin!
I'd recommend Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit to anyone who is interested in giving Bukowski a shot. Because of its small size, it won't matter if a person isn't a huge fan. They won't be out much time or effort. On the other hand, if the reader does enjoy his or herself, he or she will be immediately thirsting for a longer read.
I'd recommend Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit to anyone who is interested in giving Bukowski a shot. Because of its small size, it won't matter if a person isn't a huge fan. They won't be out much time or effort. On the other hand, if the reader does enjoy his or herself, he or she will be immediately thirsting for a longer read.
May 15, 2024
Somehow, I always feel grounded after reading Bukowski. I don't know what that says about me, but this collection has an air of levity and whimsy about it, compared to other collections and texts of his I've read. I laughed at his jokes and snarked right along with his cynicism. This collection feels more accessible in some ways than others. It strikes the right balance between grime and fresh air. It's less problematic for more sensitive readers while still thrusting you into the beer-soaked mind of the poet/writer like a bloated belly over the belt.
June 30, 2023
mr. charles BUTTkowski, i really think you should take your own advice when you say, “if I have any advice about writing poetry, it’s- don’t.” i really don’t care that you had 40 cigarettes in one day, or that you stared at young girls’ butts as inspiration, or that you prostituted your girlfriend to a bunch of firemen. i really think you should keep that to yourself you creepy, pretentious, old perv.
October 27, 2010
Just read Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Begin To Bleed A Bit by Charles Bukowski - yes, that's the title.. It's a book of his poetry - not for all; not sappy poetry that is, more like drunken Sailor's stuff.. I thought it was right up the alley with the rest of his literature, though I like his novels much better..
September 28, 2011
Perhaps the style of writing was not for me, but I was disappointed by the poetry. Among the mediocre poems were some gems, though, and I feel it was still worth the gander.
August 16, 2019
Вічно-п'яна поезія. Читати, цитувати, уявляти, пити, насолоджуватись жіночим товариством й безхитрісним буттям. Неймовірне оформлення книги та думок й відчуттів у слова.
Eternally drunk poetry. To read, quote, imagine, drink, enjoy with women and easy being. The unimaginable designing of book also thoughts and feelings into words.
Eternally drunk poetry. To read, quote, imagine, drink, enjoy with women and easy being. The unimaginable designing of book also thoughts and feelings into words.
July 23, 2017
tho he is still plagued with romanticizing a very particular kind of decadence and has real backwards ideas about gender, Bukowski the poet is I think much more talented than Bukowski the novelist. There's a real sense of cutting through the bullshit and honestly assessing life in these poems; he attacks the latter third of his life with the knowledge of the first 2/3rds, savoring the minor bacchanalias that sustain him while dismissing the bureacracies that want to infringe of that life giving freedom. Bukowski is in many ways the poet laureate of the sticky floor and the rotten toothed. The poet laureate of gum and jaw cancer and gout and getting drunk and nasty. If that's your think, I kind of get it. It's not really mine.
June 8, 2013
Not my style. I can appreciate his sparse, stark, raw & ragged style of composition, but I prefer my poetry more poetic, the language more lyrical. This just seems like unremarkable prose chopped into blunt little lines like cocaine. And that doesn't magically transform it into poetry, in my humble opinion. I know he's supposed to be one of the greats, but what exactly is the talent here? I don't see any insightful observation, innovative ideas, interesting rhythm or subject matter, or whatever other artistic merits one may throw at the wall to see what sticks.
Read
December 4, 2022Just like philosophy, it's interesting to read the poems of someone whose voice's right to be heard was never questioned by their peers or by the culture.
In them you find confidence and rushes of pure forward momentum. But on the other hand, those who have never been told "no" often don't learn how to thoroughly edit their work, to painstakingly prepare it for public view...and so the illuminating moments are insulated by needless layers of noise.
In them you find confidence and rushes of pure forward momentum. But on the other hand, those who have never been told "no" often don't learn how to thoroughly edit their work, to painstakingly prepare it for public view...and so the illuminating moments are insulated by needless layers of noise.
January 15, 2008
This is my personal favorite of Bukowski's books of poetry. It has such a raw voice to it. So many of the poems in this collection are memorable. This is the book I pull out when someone tells me that they know poetry because they know the 'classics'.
December 7, 2016
Simplemente lo leí para confirmar que este hombre no es mi estilo.
August 15, 2018
Many of these are timeless. A few have aged like milk. Reading Bukowski while female takes some patience.
Read
January 9, 2023Before I start raving over this poetry collection, I have a confession to make.
I have been looking at a little smear of blood on the floor
A tiny 'inconsequential' critter that I accidentally crushed by the door
I saw its crushed body go limp, felt remorse, and guilt poking my ribs
So I gave its body over to soft mother earth, nearby the flowerbeds
Now I sit here and ponder, over how similar we are, soft and crushable
Dear God, to think that I have been a soft little critter to some people
But I have also been a tyrant, to that soft little critter, oh my God
And I hope he forgave me before his tiny little spirit left his soft body
I saw his spirit and knew it was a good one, I felt forgiven by him
Dear God, please forgive me and forgive my tyranny and forgive those who have looked at me and found me to be a soft little critter. Please let me remain gentle always because I have seen some of the softest people 'toughen up' as the years pass them by. When I was a little girl, my mum used to tell me to brush my teeth and wash my face before bed, and then we used to clean our hearts with gentle forgiveness and send soft loving prayers to those who had not been gentle with us.
Sometimes, I feel as if my mother prepared me for some other world because whenever someone is not gentle with me, I feel a strange compassion for them, and then I must send those gentle prayers heavenward. It's not something I do purposefully, it just happens. Maybe, she wished to prepare me for paradise. Mother, I wish I was tougher than you brought me up to be and now I can't change. Oh God, is this how I will always be?
What hurts me is not the pain of being crushed but the acute consciousness of the pain of the other, like an intrinsic cry for help that wants to be let out but can't be let out so I pray to God to ease things and make things light for them. Thank you Allah for this gentleness! Please let me retain it without questioning it any further.
Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit?
Whenever I read Bukowski, I plead to God that this man could have used some help.
Bukowski, with his dirty old dog syndrome, labeled as a drunk sexist misogynist womanizer has divulged in his poetry a dystopian horror set in post-modern society except that it is real. I find it vastly amusing when people leap at the opportunity to condemn this raving old man who has been dead for over 2 decades. I secretly wish and pray God sends no one to hell, only to purgatory!
I have been looking at a little smear of blood on the floor
A tiny 'inconsequential' critter that I accidentally crushed by the door
I saw its crushed body go limp, felt remorse, and guilt poking my ribs
So I gave its body over to soft mother earth, nearby the flowerbeds
Now I sit here and ponder, over how similar we are, soft and crushable
Dear God, to think that I have been a soft little critter to some people
But I have also been a tyrant, to that soft little critter, oh my God
And I hope he forgave me before his tiny little spirit left his soft body
I saw his spirit and knew it was a good one, I felt forgiven by him
Dear God, please forgive me and forgive my tyranny and forgive those who have looked at me and found me to be a soft little critter. Please let me remain gentle always because I have seen some of the softest people 'toughen up' as the years pass them by. When I was a little girl, my mum used to tell me to brush my teeth and wash my face before bed, and then we used to clean our hearts with gentle forgiveness and send soft loving prayers to those who had not been gentle with us.
Sometimes, I feel as if my mother prepared me for some other world because whenever someone is not gentle with me, I feel a strange compassion for them, and then I must send those gentle prayers heavenward. It's not something I do purposefully, it just happens. Maybe, she wished to prepare me for paradise. Mother, I wish I was tougher than you brought me up to be and now I can't change. Oh God, is this how I will always be?
What hurts me is not the pain of being crushed but the acute consciousness of the pain of the other, like an intrinsic cry for help that wants to be let out but can't be let out so I pray to God to ease things and make things light for them. Thank you Allah for this gentleness! Please let me retain it without questioning it any further.
Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit?
Whenever I read Bukowski, I plead to God that this man could have used some help.
Bukowski, with his dirty old dog syndrome, labeled as a drunk sexist misogynist womanizer has divulged in his poetry a dystopian horror set in post-modern society except that it is real. I find it vastly amusing when people leap at the opportunity to condemn this raving old man who has been dead for over 2 decades. I secretly wish and pray God sends no one to hell, only to purgatory!
January 31, 2019
Lost my freelance gig. Then my Mac computer died. Then a playwrighting gig fell through. Plus my joints ache and it's cold outside. Where do you turn for comfort? Well, there's always the blunt and bawdy poetry of Charles Bukowski, whose Schlitz-soaked verse strips life down to its essentials: women, sex, decay, liquor, money or the lack of it, misunderstandings, cockroaches, age, death, and gambling. Gambling, you ask. Oh, yes, gambling. It's all a gamble whether you bet on horses at the races like Bukowski did or not.
April 17, 2018
Después de ser un autor recomendado por varios conocidos fanáticos, tomé la decisión de leer Play the Piano Drunk. Es una obra interesante, pero supongo que habría impactado mucho más si lo hubiese leído en mis años de adolescente. Bueno como para leer más del autor, pero no logró encantarme. En algún momento podremos calificar con medias estrellas? Definitivamente es más que tres pero menos que cuatro
January 20, 2019
Slöpp byrjun
hælæts:
Fire Station (For Jane, With Love) - pg. 38 - circa 1967
The Egg - pg. 53
I'm In Love - pg. 57
A Radio With Guts - pg. 71
Interviews - pg. 75 - circa 1975
Face Of A Political Candidate On A Street Billboard - pg. 77 - circa 1974
Yankee Doodle - pg. 78
Nothing Is As Effective As Defeat - pg. 82 - circa 1975
The Proud Thin Dying - pg. 98 - circa 1988
Under - pg. 99
I Liked Him - pg. 106
The Killer Smiles - pg. 107 - 1977
Hug The Dark - pg. 113
hælæts:
Fire Station (For Jane, With Love) - pg. 38 - circa 1967
The Egg - pg. 53
I'm In Love - pg. 57
A Radio With Guts - pg. 71
Interviews - pg. 75 - circa 1975
Face Of A Political Candidate On A Street Billboard - pg. 77 - circa 1974
Yankee Doodle - pg. 78
Nothing Is As Effective As Defeat - pg. 82 - circa 1975
The Proud Thin Dying - pg. 98 - circa 1988
Under - pg. 99
I Liked Him - pg. 106
The Killer Smiles - pg. 107 - 1977
Hug The Dark - pg. 113
January 4, 2026
I did not expect to be so taken with this collection. Some poems struck me as dull or inconsequential; others felt misguided, even rotten. However, taken as a whole, there is a peculiar beauty, something almost magnetizing, in the grotesque. That tension is precisely what draws me to Bukowski’s work and compels me to consume it so readily.
May 5, 2019
the great soprano has never read my poems
but we both know how to murder art
drink and mourn
but we both know how to murder art
drink and mourn
January 14, 2021
Українське видання дуже гарно оформлене. Отримуєш насолоду просто від гортання сторінок, але самі вірші мені не дуже сподобались. Було декілька цікавих і вартих уваги, але їх мало в цій збірці.
September 13, 2023
“Küçük hikayelerle dolu bir hayatta, ölümün gelmesini bekliyorum.”
March 27, 2024
Great little collection but could see myself getting sick of mulling over the same themes of womanizing and alcoholism long-term. Some really punchy and memorable poems though
Displaying 1 - 30 of 252 reviews