bukowski splinken Chicago "I've made it," she said, "I've come through," she had on new boots, pants and a white sweater. "I know what I want now." she was from Chicago and had settled in L.A.'s Fairfax district. "you promised me champagne," she said. "I was drunk when I phoned. how about a beer?" "no, pass me your joint." she inhaled, let it out: "this isn't very good stuff." she handed it back. "there's a difference," I said, "between making it and simply becoming hard." "you like my boots?" "yes, very nice." "listen, I've got to go. can I use your bathroom?" "sure." when she came out she had on a large lipstick mouth. I hadn't seen one of those since I was a boy. I kissed her in the doorway feeling the lipstick rub off on my lips. "goodbye," she said. "goodbye," I said. she went up the walk toward her car. I closed the door. she knew what she wanted and it wasn't me. I know more women like that than any other kind. Charles Bukowski, copyright 1977 000911 ... splinken a couple of very interesting interpersonal relationships have been solidified in the shadow of this pervy old man. rest in peace, chuck. 000915 ... m. mouse "Woke up this morning and it seemed to me that every night turns out to be a little bit more like Bukowski and yeah i know he's a pretty good read but god, who'd wanna be god, who'd wanna be such an asshole?" 040608 ... pipiola "sometimes you've got to kill 4 or 5 thousand men before you somehow get to believe that the sparrow is immortal, money is piss and that you have been wasting your time." 040627 ... Piso Mojado 'i bang my head against the white refrigerator and want to scream like the last weeping of life forever but i am bigger than the mountains' 041021 ... unhinged good_news_forpeoplewholove_bad_news 041021 ... daxle this song has been heavy on my mind lately ties in with my memories of "bar fly" 041022 ... modest birdmad "if god controls the land and disease and keeps a watchful eye on me if he's so damn mighty my problem is that i can't see who would wanna be who would wanna be such a control freak?" 041025 ... Piso Mojado in the morning it was morning and i was still alive 041104 ... Piso Mojado the drunken poet (a genius by daylight) who places long-distance calls at 3am and then lets you sit holding the phone while he vomits (he calls it 'The Night of the Long Knives') getting his kicks out of the death call... -The Twelve Dancing Princesses, Anne Sexton 050217 ... milo "whenever I see a photo of myself I think, Jesus Christ, look at that ugly bloated whale of a fish! no wonder I had such a problem getting them from the couch to the bedroom and had to get myself drunk before attempting it." [ow] 050314 ... jane cheers 050314 ... djstar BEER - bukowski from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell I don't know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I dont know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women- waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: "what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!" the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows its bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horny cowboys. well, there's beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottles fall through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is. 050609 ... djstar BEER - bukowski from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell I don't know how many bottles of beer I have consumed while waiting for things to get better I dont know how much wine and whisky and beer mostly beer I have consumed after splits with women- waiting for the phone to ring waiting for the sound of footsteps, and the phone to ring waiting for the sounds of footsteps, and the phone never rings until much later and the footsteps never arrive until much later when my stomach is coming up out of my mouth they arrive as fresh as spring flowers: "what the hell have you done to yourself? it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!" the female is durable she lives seven and one half years longer than the male, and she drinks very little beer because she knows its bad for the figure. while we are going mad they are out dancing and laughing with horny cowboys. well, there's beer sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles and when you pick one up the bottle falls through the wet bottom of the paper sack rolling clanking spilling gray wet ash and stale beer, or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m. in the morning making the only sound in your life. beer rivers and seas of beer the radio singing love songs as the phone remains silent and the walls stand straight up and down and beer is all there is. 050609 ... jane bukowski when you wait for the dawn to crawl through the screen like a burglar to take your life away the snake had crawled the hole, and she said, tell me about yourself. and I said, I was beaten down long ago in some alley in another world. and she said, we're all like pigs slapped down some lane, our grassbrains singing toward the blade. by god, you're an odd one, I said. we sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning. from "the pleasures of the damned" 2007 080623 ... stork daddy born into this. 080623 ... jane dinosauria_we 080624 ... CheapVodka So You Want To Be A Writer? If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. If you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. If you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. If you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. If it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. If you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. If it never does roar out of you, do something else. If you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. Don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. Don't add to that. Don't do it. Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. There is no other way, and there never was. - Late poem from CB We all know exactly what he's talking about. 131213 what's it to you? who go blather from