#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
Jack London drinking his life awa… writing of strange and heroic men. Eugene O’Neill drinking himself o… while writing his dark and poetic works.
But there were some good moments. My sometime friend from the neighborhood, Gene, who was a year older than I, had a buddy, Harry Gibson, who had had one professional fight (he’d lost)....
I had boils the size of tomatoes all over me they stuck a drill into me down at the county hospital, and
the waste of words continues with a stunning persistence as the waiter runs by carrying the… tray
here I’ll be 55 in a week. what will I write about
He hinted at times that I was a bastard and I told him to listen to Brahms, and I told him to learn to paint and drink and not be dominated by women and dollars but he screamed at me, F...
The jew bent over and died. 99 machine guns were shipped to France. somebody w… while I inspected the propeller of an old monoplane
they say that nothing is wasted: either that or it all is.
in the hospitals and jails it’s the worst in madhouses it’s the worst in penthouses
In bed I had something in front o… “Sorry, baby,” I said. Then I ro… Then something awakened me. It wa… “Go, baby, go!” I told her. I arched my back now and then. Sh…
Lydia had two children; Tonto, a boy of 8, and Lisa, the little girl of 5 who had interrupted our first fuck. We were together at the table one night eating dinner. Things were going we...
I used to hold my social security… up in the air, he told me, but I was so small they couldn’t see it,
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
the dead dogs of nowhere bark as you approach another traffic accident. cars one standing on its
never even in calmer times have I ever dreamed of bicycling through that