Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowskiwas an American poet, novelist, and short story writer...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth16 August 1920
CityAndernach, Germany
CountryUnited States of America
running winter cities
you've got to burn straight up and down and then maybe sidewise for a while and have your guts scrambled by a bully and the demonic ladies, you've got to run along the edge of madness teetering, you've got to starve like a winter alleycat, you've go to live with the imbecility of at least a dozen cities, then maybe maybe maybe you might know where you are for a tiny blinking moment.
rivers fame turds
When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.
love time-love happens
Something that never happens anywhere at any time.
two aliens hours
Banion wondered which was worse - being sodomized by aliens, or having to sit through two hours of Charles Ives.
good-night sleep looks
...maybe a damned good night's sleep will bring me back to a gentle sanity. But at the moment, I look about this room and, like myself, it's all in disarray: things fallen out of place, cluttered, jumbled, lost, knocked over and I can't put it straight, don't want to. Perhaps living through these petty days will get us ready for the dangerous ones.
firsts ass should
If I'm an ass, I should say so. If I don't, somebody else will. If I say it first, that disarms them.
loneliness simple despair
she was consumed by 3 simple things: drink, despair, loneliness; and 2 more: youth and beauty
silly coffee men
I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playing chess or silly games of some sort.
good-luck eye past
we drove on and on, past little villages and both good things and bad things were happening to the people in those villages too, but I still was nothing but arms and ears and eyes and maybe there'd be either some good luck for me or more death tomorrow.
dream leopards
we only asked for leopards to guard our thinning dreams.
wine blood light
the psyche has been burned and left us senseless, the world has been darker than lights-out in a closet full of hungry bats, and the whiskey and wine entered our veins when blood was too weak to carry on
sometimes
sometimes there's nothing to say about death.
fun agony years
we had such tremendous fun and much agony together for some years
sleep air tunnels
There's no light at the end of the tunnel, there isn't even a tunnel. The best thing I can do is get drunk and listen to classical music. Or sleep and wait for death to get closer. Leaving this will not be a horrible thing. Yet I'm glad, somehow, that I threw my words in the air: confetti, celebrating nothing.