#1993 #AmericanWriters #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
It was a Wednesday night, 12:30 am and I was very sick. My stomach was raw, but I managed to hold down a few beers. Tammie was with me and she seemed sympathetic. Dancy was at her grand...
naked along the side of the house, 8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil over my body, Jesus, have I come to this? I once battled in dark alleys for…
That evening after dinner Joanna produced some mescaline. “You ever tried this stuff?” Joanna had some paints and brushes and paper spread on the table. Then I remembered she was an art...
there he is: not too many hangovers not too many fights with women not too many flat tires never a thought of suicide
the branches break, the birds fall… the whores stand straight, the bombs stack, evening, morning, night, peanutbutter,
you consult psychiatrists and phil… when things aren’t going well and whores when they are. the whores are there for young boy… men; to the young boys they say,
I have seen an old man around town… carrying an enormous pack. he uses a walking stick and moves up and down the streets with this pack strapped to his bac…
the wind blows hard to night and it’s a cold wind and I think about the boys on the row. hope some of them have a bottle
for five years I have been looking across the way at the side of a red apartment hou… there must be people in there even love in there
the critics now have me drinking champagne and driving a BMW and also married to a socialite from
is a highrise apt. next door and he beats her at night and she… and I see her the next day standing in the driveway with curl… and she has her huge buttocks jamm…
I been readin’ you for a long time… I just put Billy Boy to bed, he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere… I got 2, my husband, Benny, he got 3.
drunk on the dark streets of some… it’s night, you’re lost, where’s y… room? you enter a bar to find yourself, order scotch and water.
After dinner we came back and we talked. She was a health food addict and didn’t eat meat except for chicken and fish. It certainly worked for her. “Hank,” she said, “tomorrow I’m going...
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.