#bukowski
“Real loneliness is not necessarily limited to when you are alone.”
-Charles Bukowski
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’re doing it for money or fame,don’t do it.If your doing it because you want women in your bed,don’t do it.If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,don’t do it.If you are trying to write like somebody else,forget about it.If you have to wait for it t 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 t anybody at all,you’re not ready.Don’t be dull and boring and pretentious,don’t be consumed with self-love.Don’t do it.Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket don’t do it.Unless the sun inside you is burning you 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..
Charles Bukowski
“…She had wild eyes, slightly insane. She also carried an overload of compassion that was real enough and which obviously cost her something.”— Charles Bukowski, Women (via books-n-quotes)
No tengo tiempo para cosas que no tienen alma.
“El infierno existe, está aquí, a las tres de la madrugada despierto, sin ti.”
- Charles Bukowski
Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski
bukowski
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
An Almost Made Up Poem by Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski