Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski
Henry Charles Bukowskiwas an American poet, novelist, and short story writer...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth16 August 1920
CityAndernach, Germany
CountryUnited States of America
ocean grief gone
it is all ash and dry leaves and grief gone like an ocean liner.
heart hands rocks
my hands dead my heart dead silence adagio of rocks the world ablaze that's the best for me.
pain numbness weather
It was too much. The comfortable people made comfortable jokes about weather and things but I sat mostly silent saying a word or so when necessary a word or so trying to hide from them the fact that I was a fool and feeling terrible And I was numb, numb again, numb again again and again, numbness and pain swelling in me.
fall mirrors sides
you fall into the mirror, come through the other side staring at a lightbulb.
beautiful fighting promise
as the shadows assume shapes I fight the slow retreat now my once-promise dwindling dwindling now lighting new cigarettes pouring more drinks it has been a beautiful fight still is.
nuts insanity norm
Belane, are you nuts?" Who knows? Insanity is comparative. Who sets the norm?
care wonder stills
We’ve died so many times now that we can only wonder why we still care.
love death drains
My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ~ Falsely yours
lonely museums empty
The empty, the angry, the lonely, the tricked, we are all museums of fear.
heart mind drones
whiskey makes the heart beat faster but it sure doesn't help the mind and isn't it funny how you can ache just from the deadly drone of existence?
good-night nice rain
I think that the world should be full of cats and full of rain, that's all, just cats and rain, rain and cats, very nice, good night.
running rain sleep
It will rain all this night and we will sleep transfixed by the dark water as our blood runs through our fragile life.
hurt self knives
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife inside because there was no alternative except to hide as long as possible--- not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance: trying to connect.
secret type
I'm not the cruel type, but they are, and that's the secret.