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We waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nightsour silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else's confetti

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
Sick
Wraps
Somebody
Silk
Days
Smiles
Else
Mad
Confetti
Around
Pray
Blackbirds
Human
Praying
Alcoholic
Humans
Bird
Wrap
Like
Waste
Alcoholics

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nobody ever finds the one
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Some people never go crazy, What truly horrible lives they must live.
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Long before I became 'rich and famous' I just sat round drinking wine and staring at the walls.
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Let it die. Let there be a new beginning. It’s awful. Goodnight.
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There still might be a place for us somewhere.
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And there I was, 225 pounds, perpetually lost and confused, short legs, ape-like upper body, all chest, no neck, head too large, blurred eyes, hair uncombed, 6 feet of geek, waiting for her.
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There are no good wars or bad wars. The only thing bad about a war is to lose it. All wars have been fought for a so-called good Cause on both sides. But only the victor's Cause becomes history's Noble Cause. It's not a matter of who is right or who is wrong, it's a matter of who has the best generals and the better army!
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mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy?
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I am too sick to lay down the sidewalks frighten me the whole damned city frightens me, what I will become what I have become frightens me.
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It's better to do a dull thing with style than a dangerous thing without it.
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there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock
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There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people. Maybe I'd become a monk. I'd pretend to believe in God and live in a cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine.
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I feel no grief for being called something which I am not in fact, it's enthralling, somehow, like a good back rub
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Finally there is nothing here for death to take away.
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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.
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He asked, What makes a man a writer? Well, I said, it's simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.
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News travels fast in places where nothing much ever happens.
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Dying in a a war never stopped wars from happening.
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I am a poem. There is no way out.
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I wasn’t lonely. I experienced no self-pity. I was just caught up in a life in which I could find no meaning.
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