I just finished my first Bukowski book
You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense.
What a nut.
Going on about whores
and late nights sucking down on a bottle
as the sun rises mercilessly,
glaring in your eyes
laughing right in your face,
but you squint and light another cigarette
anyway.
I guess that’s how you summarize
lonely.
That’s how I interpret it…
You should look up what this man
looks like.
Gray hair,
old and kind lookin’
he had kind eyes
that’s how I interpret them…
Kind and happy
even if he helped me see what
anger and emptiness really looks like.
So I ordered two more.
Two more books filled with hideous words
like pussy and skidrows.
What a nut.
I hope he gets me through this dark phase.
Melancholy looks to attach itself to more
melancholy
right? Well fuck,
at least it means a few more hundred pages
of seeing inside
The mind of an asshole.
Who knows,
it could soften the memories of the
pigs of my past.
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