#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
love, he said, gas kiss me off kiss my lips kiss my hair my fingers
places to hunt places to hide are getting harder to find, and pet canaries and goldfish too, did you… that?
the balance is preserved by the sn… the Santa Monica cliffs; the luck is in walking down Wester… and having the girls in a massage parlor holler at you, “Hello, Swe…
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
the waste of words continues with a stunning persistence as the waiter runs by carrying the… tray
You had to fill out more papers to get out than to get in. The first page they gave you was a personalized mimeo affair from the postmaster of the city. It began: “I am sorry you are te...
it’s strange when famous people di… whether they have fought the good… the bad one. it’s strange when famous people di… whether we like them or not
are we going to the movies or not? she asked him. all right, he said, let’s go. I’m not going to put any pan ties… so you can finger-fuck me in the
here I am in the ground my mouth open and
I suppose it’s raining in some Sp… while I’m feeling bad like this; I’d like to think so now.
he was a good one say 18, 19, marine and every time woman came down the train aisle
I had worked my charms on her for a couple of nights in a bar— not that we were new lovers, I had loved her for 16 months but she didn’t want to come to my…
almost dawn blackbirds on the telephone wire waiting as I eat yesterday’s forgotten sandwich
a poem is a city filled with stree… filled with saints, heroes, beggar… filled with banality and booze, filled with rain and thunder and p… drought, a poem is a city at war,
I was sitting with an anarchist from Beverly Hills, Ben Solvnag, who was writing my biography when I heard her footsteps on the court walk. I knew the sound—they were always fast and fr...