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we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure.

Charles Bukowski

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Charles Bukowski
Age: 73 †
Born: 1920
Born: August 16
Died: 1994
Died: March 9
Actor
Author
Autobiographer
Columnist
Diarist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Henry Charles Bukowski
Buk
charles bukowski
Listening
Dead
Told
Wasn
Sure

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Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It's like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.
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Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.
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I would say that Mickey Mouse has a greater influence on the American public than Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, Rabelais, Shostakovitch, Lenin, and/or Van Gogh. Which says 'What?' about the American Public. Disneyland remains the central attraction of Southern California, but the graveyard remains our reality.
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my hands dead my heart dead silence adagio of rocks the world ablaze that's the best for me.
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Careful poetry and careful people live only long enough to die safely.
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I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.
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The years have gone by quickly. Death sits in the seat next to me. We make a lovely couple.
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I have loved you woman as surely as I have named you rust and sand and nylon.
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dogs and angels are not very far apart
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Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!
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In a capitalistic society the losers slaved for the winners and you have to have more losers than winners.
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WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR TYPEWRITER YOU LEAVE YOUR MACHINE GUN AND THE RATS COME POURING THROUGH.
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she’ mad but she’ magic. there’ no lie in her fire.
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stay with the beer. beer is continuous blood. a continuous lover.
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Sundays kill more people than bombs.
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I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.
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it is all ash and dry leaves and grief gone like an ocean liner.
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there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say no.
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Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing.
Charles Bukowski
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A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.
Charles Bukowski