#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
I’m out of matches. the springs in my couch are broken. they stole my footlocker. they stole my oil painting of
suppose like others have come through fire and sword, love gone wrong, head-on crashes, drunk at sea, and I have listened to the simple…
red-eyed and dizzy as I the bird came flying all the way from Egypt at 5 o’clock in the morning, and Maria almost stumbled on her s…
I am a panther shut up and bellowi… cement walls, and I am angry at bl… evenings without ventilation and I am angry with you, and it wi… like a rose
great writer remains in bed shades down doesn’t want to see anyone doesn’t want to write anymore doesn’t want to try anymore;
Cleo’s going to make it now she’s got her shit together she split with Barney Barney wasn’t good for her she got a bigger apartment
the girls were young and worked the streets but often couldn’t score, they
welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.
nobody goes downtown anymore the plants and trees have been cut… Pershing Square the grass is brown and the street preachers are not a…
here I’ll be 55 in a week. what will I write about
the Egyptians loved the cat were often entombed with it instead of with the women and never with the dog but now
Frank liked airplanes. He lent me all his pulp magazines about World War 1. The best was Flying Aces. The dog-fights were great, the Spads and the Fokkers mixing it. I read all the stor...
I hear them outside: “does he always type this late?” “no, it’s very unusual.” “he shouldn’t type this
Bruckner wasn’t bad even though he got down on his knees and proclaimed Wagner the master.
think of de vils in hell and stare at a beautiful vase of flowers as the woman in my bedroom