Stone’s Master of Disguise and Charles Bukowski

Happy Friday and National Poetry Month!

Before I go any further, I should say that this is one of the oddest beers that I’ve ever had. Not from a purely taste standpoint, and not from a purely appearance perspective; but from the weird combination of the two. It’s for that reason that I’ve coupled this beer with a Charles Bukowski poem, the Poet Laureate of Skid Row.

Stone’s Master of Disguise Imperial Golden Stout

Stone Master of Disguise

 

The beautiful amber coloring is misleading as right off the bat this beer is full of coffee and malt on the nose. In fact, if you were to close your eyes, your mind’s eye would see a smooth, dark beer; not this aleish looking mixture. But, the nose doesn’t lie.

And neither do the taste buds. Master is a velvety beer, smooth with coffee and malt flavors right up front. When I first heard of it, I assumed it would be more circus act than drinkable brew, but it holds up beyond the oddity of the initial look and taste.

10/10 For being really weird

10/10 As an amber and golden stout

8/10 As an actual stout

8/10 Overall

Much like this beer, there is more to Bukowski than one might first assume. From all appearances he is a grizzled, hangdog sort of guy with very little to say of any value. It’s on reading his work that the pervading sense of beauty and loneliness and depth comes through. So while a lot of his work deals with drink and drugs and women, there is always an undercurrent of something more; a fact that is never more true than in “Spark.”

Spark

I always resented all the years, the hours, the
minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it
actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me
dizzy and a bit crazy – I couldn’t understand the
murdering of my years
yet my fellow workers gave no signs of
agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and
seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as
the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.
the work pounded them to nothingness, they were
scooped-out and thrown away.

I resented each minute, every minute as it was
mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotony.

I considered suicide.
I drank away my few leisure hours.

I worked for decades.

I lived with the worst kind of women, they killed what
the job failed to kill.

I knew that I was dying.
something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as
them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.
it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it.

I think I did.
I’m glad I did.
what a lucky god damned
thing.

4 comments

  1. Pingback: National Poetry Month! | The Ultimate Penultimate
  2. Regina Nevermind · April 21, 2015

    Bukowski is one of that author that maybe at first look seem “worth” of a second read of their books, but actually hes more true, and deep than more people may ever think of it..i made a reading of one of his poem, have a listen if you want πŸ™‚ https://youtu.be/OvOThTejVLo

    • TC Moore · April 21, 2015

      That’s an awesome video! Thanks for sharing and stopping by!

      • Regina Nevermind · April 22, 2015

        πŸ™‚ im glad you liked it! πŸ™‚

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