I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.
Charles Bukowskisince some people had told me that I was ugly, I always preferred shade to the sun, darkness to light
Charles BukowskiI went to the bathroom and threw some water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that face, I thought, but I can't.
Charles BukowskiArt is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.
Charles BukowskiI could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me . . . To do things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.
Charles Bukowski