100 (a lot more bleak and a lot less daring)

he was an old pervert that loved ladies booze horses cĂ©line and classical music. not necessarily in that order. depending on the day depending on the mood depending on the number of glasses in he was. he was a prickly old shit by the time he became the greatest living poet. it just got worse […]

curled up with a dead poet

there is this feeling as i try and process the latest collection of bukowski poems of heart rending sorrow that one day the ever slimming pile of (un)released poetry will be the last anguish it feels like he typed each on my aorta tangled my consciousness in the simplicity of words flowing in that broken […]