#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell
welcome to my wormy hell. the music grinds off-key. fish eyes watch from the wall. this is where the last happy shot… fired.
when you’re young a pair of female high-heeled shoes just sitting
feet of cheese coffeepot soul hands that hate poolsticks eyes like paperclips I prefer red wine
of course, I may die in the next t… and I’m ready for that but what I’m really worried about… that my editor—publisher might ret… even though he is ten years younge…
he’s 17 . mother, he said, how do I crack an egg? all right, she said to me, you don… sit there looking like that.
I’d tell them to have an unhappy l… affair, hemorrhoids, bad teeth and to drink cheap wine, avoid opera and golf and chess, to keep switching the head of thei…
he got knifed in broad daylight, c… holding his hands over his gut, dr… on the pavement. nobody waiting in line left their… he made it to the Mission doorway,…
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
love, he said, gas kiss me off kiss my lips kiss my hair my fingers
the rooms at the hospital went for 550 a day. that was for the room alone. the amazing thing, though, was tha… in some of the rooms
I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh,
great writer remains in bed shades down doesn’t want to see anyone doesn’t want to write anymore doesn’t want to try anymore;
listen, man, don’t tell me about t… sent, we didn’t receive them, we are very careful with manuscrip… we bake them burn them
Vallejo writing about loneliness while starving to death; Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a whore;
The riots ended, the baby calmed down, and I found ways to avoid Janko. But the dizzy spells persisted. The doctor wrote me a standing order for the green-white librium capsules and the...