#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
we have everything and we have not… and some men do it in churches and some men do it by tearing butt… in half and some men do it in Palm Spring…
cleaned my place the other day first time in ten years and found 100 rejected poems: fastened them all to a clipboard much bad reading.
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
half-past nowhere alone in the crumbling tower of myself stumbling in this the
I got in the shower and burned my balls last Wednesday. met this painter called Spain, no, he was a cartoonist,
luxury ocean liners crossing the water full of the indolent and rich passing from this place to that
blue fish, the blue night, a blue… everything is blue. and my cats are blue: blue fur, bl… blue whiskers, blue eyes. my bed lamp shines
the acute and terrible air hangs w… as summer birds mingle in the bran… and warble and mystify the clamor of the mind… an old parrot
he drank wine all night of the 28th, and he kept thinking of her: the way she walked and talked and… the way she told him things that s… but were not, and he knew the colo…
I wait on life like a pregnancy, p… the gut but all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth throu… brain
my moustache is pasted-on and my wig and my eyebrows and even my eyes... then something stuns me... the lampshades swing, I hear
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
I got up for a glass of water and as I walked into the kitchen I saw Picasso walk up to Joyce and lick her ankle. I was barefooted and she didn’t hear me. She had on high heels. She loo...
you have to have it or the walls w… in. you have to give everything up, th… away, everything away. you have to look at what you look…
by God, I don’t know what to do. they’re so nice to have around. they have a way of playing with the balls