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
men names found
I've found out why men sign their names to their works- not that they created them but more than the others did not.
running men alive
like the fox I run with the hunted and if I’m not the happiest man on earth I’m surely the luckiest man alive.
love-is men average
beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average
simple men bridges
he asked, "what makes a man a writer?" "well," I said, "it's simple, it's either you get it down on paper or you jump off a bridge. writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers." "are you desperate?" "I don't know...
lonely men stuff
Hey, Hank, I notice all the women around your place lately ... good looking stuff; you're doing all right." "Sam," I say, "that's not true; I am one of God's most lonely men.
men thinking average
for a man of 55 who didn't get laid until he was 23 and not very often until he was 50 I think that I should stay listed via Pacific Telephone until I get as much as the average man has had
writing men cliffs
There is something about writing poetry that brings a man close to the cliff's edge.
silly coffee men
I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playing chess or silly games of some sort.
rain men light
I once lay in a white hospital for the dying and the dying self, where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die, where on my knees I prayed for LIGHT, I prayed for l*i*g*h*t, and praying crawled like a blind slug into the web where threads of wind stuck against my mind and I died of pity for Man, for myself, on a cross without nails, watching in fear as the pig belches in his sty, farts, blinks and eats.
art writing men
To me Art (poetry) is a continuous and continuing process and that when a man fails to write good poetry he fails to live fully or well.
writing wine men
the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever
men faces different
Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.
cheating believe men
A man needed somebody. There wasn't anybody around, so you had to make up somebody, make him up to be like a man should be. It wasn't make-believe or cheating. The other way was make-believe and cheating: living your life without a man like him around.
men never-trust never-trust-a-man
Never trust a man in a jumpsuit