#Americans #XXCentury #1993 #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
Julio came by with his guitar and… latest song. Julio was famous, he wrote songs a… published books of little drawings… poems.
On Christmas I had Betty over. She baked a turkey and we drank. Betty always liked huge Christmas trees. It must have been 7 feet tall, and 1/2 as wide, covered with lights, bulbs, tins...
she writes: you’ll be moaning and groaning in your poems about how I fucked those 2 guys last week.
I have been hanging here headless for so long that the body has forgotten
I always wanted to ball Henry Miller, she said, but by the time I got there it was too late. damn it, I said, you girls
When Jonstone saw me the next 5 a.m. he spun in his swivel and his face and his shirt were the same color. But he said nothing. I didn’t care. I had been up to 2 a.m. drinking and screw...
Tony phoned and told me that Jan had left him but that he was a… helped him he said to think about… like D. H. Lawrence pissed off with life in general bu…
I took it home, opened the beer, got into bed and began. It started well. It was about how Janko had lived in small rooms and starved while trying to find a job. He had trouble with the...
I have just spent one—hour—and—a—h… handicapping tomorrow’s card. when am I going to get at the poem… well, they’ll just have to wait
My German doctor walked up. The one who had given me the blood tests. “Congratulations,” he said, shaking my hand, "it’s a girl. 9 pounds, 3 ounces.” “The mother will be all right. She ...
I would, of course, prefer to be w… instead of with a photograph of an… to the sound of the anvil chorus a… girls kicking high, showing everyt… but I might as well be dead right…
the strong men the muscle men there they sit down at the beach cocoa tans
he sits all day at the bus stop at Sunset and Western his sleeping bag beside him. he’s dirty. nobody bothers him.
you know what Li Po said when ask… Artist or Rich? I’d rather be Rich,” he replied,… sitting on the doorsteps of the Rich.”
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.