#AmericanWriters #1977 #LoveIsADogFromHell
I get many phonecalls now. They are all alike. “are you Charles Bukowski, the writer?” “yes,” I tell them.
the dead can sleep they don’t get up and rage they don’t have a wife. her white face like a flower in a closed
This babe in the grandstand with dyed red hair kept leaning her breasts against me and talking about Gardena poker parlors
you’re a beast, she said your big white belly and those hairy feet. you never cut your nails and you have fat hands
shot in the eye shot in the brain shot in the ass shot like a flower in the dance amazing how death wins hands down
Shirley came to town with a broken… and met the Chicano who smoked long slim cigars and they got a place together on Beacon street
dogs and angels are not very different. I often go to this place to eat about 2:30 in the afternoon
It was noon the next day when the phone rang. It was Lydia again. I heard a long insane wail like a wolverine shot in the arctic snow and left to bleed and die alone. . . . I slept most...
the pleasures of the damned are limited to brief moments of happiness: like the eyes in the look of a dog… like a square of wax,
I walked off the job again and the police stopped me for running a red light at Serrano… my mind was rather gone and I stood in a patch of leaves
when you’re young a pair of female high-heeled shoes just sitting
first they used to, he told me, gun and bomb the elephants, you could hear their screams over… but you flew high to bomb the peop… you never saw it,
very tall girl lifts her nose at m… outside a supermarket as if I were a walking garbage can; and I had no desire for her, no more desire
I’m not going to die easy; I’ve sat on your suicide beds in some of the worst holes in America,
After 3 years I made “regular.” That meant holiday pay (subs didn’t get paid for holidays) and a 40 hour week with 2 days off. The Stone was also forced to assign me as relief man to 5 ...