I think by some weird time-line and blood-line, Charles Bukowski is my father. That or, we’re the same person.

(Source: theserpentsden, via brokenmachine)

I think Charles Bukowski would be a good drinking partner for me.

I could keep up.

"I suppose like others
I have come through fire and sword,
love gone wrong,
head-on crashes, drunk at sea,
and I have listened to the simple sound of water running
in tubs
and wished to drown"

Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last

gpoy

(Source: n0s33d2)

"

burning in hell
this piece of me fits in nowhere
as other people find things
to do
with their time
places to go
with one another
things to say
to each other.

I am
burning in hell
some place north of Mexico.
flowers don’t grow here.

I am not like
other people
other people are like
other people.

they are all alike:
joining
grouping
huddling
they are both
gleeful and content
and i am
burning in hell.

my heart is a thousand years old
I am not like
other people.
I’d die on their picnic grounds
smothered by their flags
slugged by their songs
unloved by their soldiers
gored by their humor
murdered by their concern.

I am not like
other people.
I am
burning in hell.

the hell of
myself.

"

Charles Bukowski (via henrycharlesbukowski)

(via brokenmachine)

"she is no longer
the beautiful woman
she was. she sends
photos of herself
sitting upon a rock
by the ocean
alone and damned.
I could have had
her once. I wonder
if she thinks I
could have
saved her?"

Charles Bukowski

I’m beginning to question things I shouldn’t question. And I just feel so lonely and tired and sad. Every word of poetry I read swells my eyes. But I continue to read, as if I enjoy torturing myself. As if I feel there is a virus in me that needs to be flushed out.
Instead I keep self-medicating in the most deprecating ways. I just wish I knew how to make this all go away.

(via when-theres-nothing-left-to-bur)

Raw with Love

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won’t blame you,
instead
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.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won’t use it
yet.

- Charles Bukowski

(via brokenmachine)