Friday, July 31st, 2009...12:08 pm
gary goude | sad lives

SAD LIVES
She told me
her life was useless.
“Of course”
I said
“All of them are.”
She said
she was sad
had been all along.
“That is
a sign of
tremendous
intelligence”
I replied
taking a good hit
off the bottle
of Early Times
we were sharing.
“No, I mean
I am depressed.”
I grabbed
her right breast
poured whiskey
upon it, then kissed
her mouth,
felt my
cock
engorge with blood
and looked into her soul.
“Baby
you don’t
understand’”
I said.
“Love will
not save us.
Fucking is only
an afterthought.
Death
is our
only salvation.”
Then
I finished.
Goude’s poems are cut-throat, matter of fact images about those who live trapped in the everyday horror of the human condition. Goude is an outlaw poet, and by that I mean he’s been places a lot of readers may rather not go. He also uses an economy of words, in the style of Moore. You may imagine through his poems that he has probably woken up next to the train tracks more than once in his life. Like Moore, he has lived hard and close to the bone.
Gary Goude is a machine shop worker in Los Angeles. He’s also a Vietnam vet. And he happens to write the most gut-wrenchingly real poetry you’ll have read since the death of the originator of blood and guts poetry Charles Bukowski, who interestingly enough, found an audience among the uppity poetry folks when he was first published in the NYQ back in the early ’70s. Well, folks, Gary Goude is the new Bukowski. His stuff is about the real everyday hell we all go through. He is an every man. Married. Divorced. On the outs with one son and now the other. He can’t maintain a a relationship with a woman. He has few friends. His trust in his fellow man all gone. And he self medicates with alcohol. He’s nearing 60 and his words should be read by everyone who can’t stand regular, dull, lifeless, having nothing to do with anything poetry, you know, the flowery bullcrap that makes no sense and means. –Robert W. Howington
some related articles are listed below:
- gary goude | jake’s dream
- gary goude | more poems
- todd moore | gary goude and that crushed rotting dawg
- todd moore | gary goude | blood on blood
- todd moore | danger beyond danger, where the outlaw lives
- gary brower | a portrait
- gary brower | django
- don winter | lonesome town
- gary brower | gunslinger in new mexico: for ed dorn (1929-1999)
- todd moore | leaving a little blood on the floor
- gary brower | the wanekia
- todd moore | what are the stakes in american poetry?
- todd moore | the nightmare of poetry is war
- todd moore | saturday night desperate, don winter, and the black mitten of poetry
- todd moore | the last good reading from the outlaw dark
- todd moore | the question
- gary brower | the crescent and the full moon
- todd moore | i don’t want
- todd moore | what I want to know
- todd moore | working on my duende
- tony moffeit | shaking the bones
- todd moore | taking on bukowski
- todd moore | fucking
- todd moore | love & death & teeth in the blood
- todd moore | when…
- todd moore | coyote death mask outlaw
- todd moore | reading the dark
- todd moore | the long way home and the blood on the floor
- todd moore | machine guns, guernica, and the outlaw poem
- lost? & found!
- todd moore | how to survive the coming night: the poetry of john yamrus
- todd moore | writing poetry, burning the house
- todd moore | death rides the blood
- todd moore | rd armstrong | reads
- todd moore | night blood, red hands
- todd moore | gimme danger
- todd moore | the old man’s waiting
- tony moffeit | outlaw: the roots
- todd moore | all the way to the fame
- todd moore | reading the movies, watching the poems
- todd moore | all the dark talking to the angel of death
- todd moore | a conversation with raindog
- todd moore | blood calls to blood
- todd moore | hustling for drinks, praying for lines
- tony moffeit | renegade
- todd moore | writing dillinger in the eye of the hurricane
- todd moore | the machine gun blood of the poem
- todd moore | the dark country
- zach king-smith | burning to nirvana
- todd moore | into the open madness: the poetry of kell robertson
- tony moffeit | outlaw
- todd moore | I work the shattered line
- todd moore | instructions for reading dead reckoning
- tony moffeit | a man on fire
- todd moore | we cut
- gary brower | chet
- gary brower | mahalia
- todd moore | blind whiskey and the straight razor blues
- tony moffeit | the outlaw revolution
- gary brower | ella and joe in westwood
- gary brower | chasin’ the trane
- tony moffeit | american blues outlaw poetry anarchic dream
- todd moore | outlaw poetry, psychic damage, the survival of wounds
- todd moore | the shattered hemingway sentence
- todd moore | fighting death for the poem
- john yamrus | dear john…
- todd moore | the blood of the poet
- todd moore | i’ll play dillinger
- francEyE | call
- todd moore | cold fire, molten ice
- s.a. griffin | of mad affairs, tall blondes & drunken poets
- ken greenley | miriam halliday borkowski
- todd moore | outlaw bonfires and dillinger’s blood
- todd moore | just
- todd moore | the exalted scar and the annointed cure












1 Comment
July 31st, 2009 at 4:14 pm
If Gary Goude wrote novels, they’d be a combination of James M. Cain and Jim Thompson.
What Goude knows more than anyone else is that we are all in hell, now.
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