In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought.
And then I did.

Charles Bukowski


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bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it

Charles Bukowski


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أسفل الجادّات وأعلاها
البشر يتألمون؛
ينامون متألمين، يستيقظون
متألّمين؛
حتى المباني تتألم،
حتى الجسور
والأزهار تتألم
ولا انعتاق
الألم يجلس
يطفو
ينتظر
يكون.

Charles Bukowski


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لا أفهم لمَ لا يختفي أولئك
البشر
لا أفهم لمَ لا تنتهي
مدّتهم
لمَ لا تقتلهم
الغيوم
أو لمَ لا تقتلهم
الكلاب
أو لمَ لا تقتلهم
الزهور والأطفال،
لا أفهم.

أفترض أنهم مقتولون
لكنني لا أستطيع التكيّف
مع واقعهم
لأنهم كثيرون
جداً.

كل يوم،
كل ليلة،
تزداد أعدادهم
في قطارات الأنفاق وفي
المباني وفي
الحدائق

لا يشعرون برعب
أنهم لا يحِبُّون
أو لا
يحَبَّون

الكثير الكثير الكثير
من إخواني
البشر.

Charles Bukowski


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I mean, say that you figure that everything is senseless, then it can't be quite senseless because you are aware that it's senseless and your awareness of senselessness almost gives it sense. You
know what I mean?

Charles Bukowski


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the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them

Charles Bukowski


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Fay had a spot of blood on the left side of her mouth and I took a wet cloth and wiped it off. Women were meant to suffer; no wonder they asked for constant declarations of love.

Charles Bukowski

Tag: women-s-strength



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I went over to see Marina two or three or four times a week. I knew as long as I could see the girl I would be all right…. Soon after, I got a letter from Fay. She and the child were living in a hippie commune in New Mexico. It was a nice place, she said. Marina would be able to breathe there. She enclosed a little drawing the girl had made for me.

Charles Bukowski

Tag: child



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There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.

Charles Bukowski


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If there are junk yards in hell, love is the dog that guards the gates.

Charles Bukowski


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