#AmericanWriters #1993 #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
she was a short one getting fat and she had once been beautiful and she drank the wine she drank the wine in bed and
this kid used to teach at Kansas… then they moved him out he went to a bean factory then he and his wife moved to the… she got a job and worked while
little dark girl with kind eyes when it comes time to use the knife I won’t flinch and
the critics now have me drinking champagne and driving a BMW and also married to a socialite from
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
The next time you listen to Borod… remember he was just a chemist who wrote music to relax; his house was jammed with peor e: students, artists, drunkards, bur…
sit on this bench and look at the sea and the freaks and the lovers. need new eyes a new mouth new pillows, a new woman.
Two mornings later, at 4 am, somebody beat on the door. I let Tammie in. She sat down and I opened a couple of beers. “I’ve got bad breath, I have these two bad teeth. You can’t kiss me...
This will refer to the letter addressed to you dated August 17, 1969, proposing your suspension without pay for three days or other disciplinary action, based on Charge No. 1 specified ...
I used to take the back off the telephone and stuff it with ra… and when somebody knocked I wouldn’t answer and if they pers… I’d tell them in terms vulgar
Nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses d… and the landladies stare in the ha…
you gotta have wars suppose World War One was the bes… really, you know, both sides were… they really had something to fight… they really thought they had somet…
Jane, who has been dead for 31 yea… never could have imagined that I would write a scre… days together and
I was in the 4th grade when I found out about it. I was probably one of the last to know, because I still didn’t talk to anybody. A boy walked up to “Your mother has a hole . . .”—he to...
the men phone and ask me that. are you really Charles Bukowski the writer? they ask. I’m a sometimes writer, I say, most often I don’t do anything.