Charles Bukowski (1992)

A gang of kids find a strange house with an overgrown garden where they play. Only once do they meet the man who lives there, a dead-beat alcoholic with a free and easy spirit who welcomes them. The children see him as a romantic character in stark contrast to their neurotically house proud parents.

A collaboration between Animator Jonathan Hodgson and Illustrator Jonny Hannah.

hodgsonfilms.tumblr.com

KEY CREDITS:
Director: Jonathan Hodgson
Producer: Jonathan Bairstow
Designer: Jonny Hannah
Poem: Charles Bukowski
Sound: Jonathan Hodgson
Voices: Peter Blegvad, Louis Schendler
Production Company: Sherbet

Hobo Moon

She walks with me in my dreams,
and loves me true, so it seems,
but upon awake she is not there,
she is with someone else without a care.


I have loved her for many years,
and cried far too many tears.
The time has come that I told
of the feelings for her that I hold.


Always running in a different direction.
Never very good at showing affection.
This time I’ll do it right.
I’ll tell her under the starry moonlight.


Stay with me girl, just for a while.
You know you always make me smile.
Walk with me along the sand,
and don’t let go of my hand.


This love for you is very real.
Please tell me how you feel.
If you just want a friend
I’ll stick with you until the end.

Hobo Moon

The hands that once pointed in every direction
Have failed to move since she gave it away,
And though the band is much to tight,
He still wears it every day.
It helps him to remember that moonless night.
That night he tried to make her stay.
Losing himself in his own reflection,
He remembers the words that she used to say,
The sweet reverberation,
Trembling from her lips in exasperation.
Eyes lost in a distant fading memory,
Like fog dissipating with the arrival of the day,
He stares at his watch,
Waiting,
For those hands
Hoping,
To continue
Stuck in the past,
Their ritualistic dance.
Those hands.
Salvador DalĂ­’s painting Persistence of Memory, 1931.

Hobo Moon

Writing these poems is rather difficult you see. 
Like climbing a mountain or wrestling a shark.
Searching in the dark for the right words to say
just what you are thinking.
Searching for the words to say exactly how you feel
without losing any rhythm or zeal.

What do you do when you cannot think of a rhyme?
What happens when you have not got the time?
Do you sit down and pout? 
Do you ask a boy scout?
I prefer to take the more scenic route.

Howling at the moon,
I know I will find myself soon
written into a poem, and
from this world, I shall be forgotten.