It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.
Charles BukowskiI 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 BukowskiSometimes a man doesn’t know what to do about things and sometimes it’s best to lie very still and try not to think at all about anything.
Charles BukowskiGetting drunk was good. I decided that I would always like getting drunk. It took away the obvious and maybe if you could get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn't become so obvious yourself.
Charles BukowskiIt’s so easy to be easy—if you let it.
Charles BukowskiPeople don't do me much good.
Charles BukowskiI didn't like parties.I didn't know how to dance and people frightened me, especially people at parties. They attempted to be sexy and gay and witty and although they hoped they were good at it, they weren 't. They were bad at it. Their trying so hard only made it worse.
Charles BukowskiThe nights you fight best are
when all the weapons are pointed at you,
when all the voices hurl their insults
while the dream is being strangled.
The nights you fight best are
when reason gets kicked in the gut,
when the chariots of gloom encircle you.
The nights you fight best are
when the laughter of fools fills the air,
when the kiss of death is mistaken for love.
The nights you fight best are
when the game is fixed,
when the crowd screams for your blood.
The nights you fight best are
on a night like this
as you chase a thousand dark rats from your brain,
as you rise up against the impossible,
as you become a brother to the tender sister of joy
and move on
regardless.
Tags: inspirational
We have wasted History like a bunch of drunks shooting dice back in the men's crapper of the local bar.
Charles BukowskiTags: badass
Тази вечер се чувствам отровен, смачкан, употребен, износен до кокал. Не е само заради старостта, но сигурно е свързано с нея. Мисля, че тълпата, онази тълпа, Човечеството, което винаги ми е било трудно да приема, тази тълпа най-накрая ще ме победи. Мисля, че големият проблем е, че при всички тези хора всичко се повтаря. В тях няма нищо свежо. Няма дори малко чудо. Те просто ме изтощават, изтощават. Ако някой ден видя поне ЕДИН човек, който прави или казва нещо необикновено, това ще ми помогне да се спася. Но те са вкиснати, кирливи. Няма живец. Очи, уши, крака, гласове, но ... нищо. Те се мумифицират, самозаблуждават се, преструват се на живи...
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