#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
the night I was going to die I was sweating on the bed and I could hear the crickets and there was a cat fight outside and I could feel my soul dropping…
vain vanilla ladies strutting while van Gogh did it to himself. girls pulling on silk hose
a girlfriend came in built me a bed scrubbed and waxed the kitchen flo… scrubbed the walls vacuumed
the men phone and ask me that. are you really Charles Bukowski the writer? they ask. I’m a sometimes writer, I say, most often I don’t do anything.
escape from the black widow spider is a miracle as great as art. what a web she can weave slowly drawing you to her she’ll embrace you
sun-stroked women without men on a Santa Monica Monday; the men are working or in jail or insane;
I am hung by a nail the sun melts my heart I am cousin to the snake
shot off his left ear then his right, and then tore off his belt buckle with hot lead, and then
are more beautiful than movie stars and they lounge on the lawn sunbathing
he packaged it up neatly in differ… sending the legs to an aunt in St.… the head to a scoutmaster in Brook… the belly to a cross-eyed butcher… the female organs were sent to a y…
the telephone has not been kind of… of late there have been more and m… from people who want to come over… from people who are depressed from people who are lonely
There are sketches on the walls of… and outside a large green bus swer… insanity sprung from a waving line… says the radio, and Jane Austin,… “I am going to do her portrait on…
I finally, got a day off, and you know what I did? I got up early before Joyce got back in and I went down to the market to do a little shopping, and maybe I was crazy. I walked through...
these things that we support most… have nothing to do with up, and we do with them out of boredom or fear or money or cracked intelligence;
she sits up there drinking wine while her husband is at work. she puts quite