one of Lorca’s best linesis,“agony, alwaysagony …” think of this when youkill a cockroach orpick up a razor to shave or awaken in the morningto face thesun.
god I got the sad blue blues,this woman sat there and shesaidare you really Charles Bukowski? and I said forget that I do not feel goodI’ve got the sad sadsall I want…
I see you drinking at a fountain with tinyblue hands, no, your hands are not tinythey are small, and the fountain is in Francewhere you wrote me that last letter…
shot in the eyeshot in the brainshot in the assshot like a flower in the dance amazing how death wins hands downamazing how much credence is given to idiot forms…
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten andterrorizeda white cross-eyed tailless catI took him in and fed him and he stayedgrew to trust me until a friend…
death wants more death, and its webs are full:I remember my father’s garage, how child-likeI would brush the corpses of fliesfrom the windows they thought were escape-their sticky, ugly, vibrant…
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on atrain and that they never were recovered.I can’t match the agony of thisbut the other night I wrote a…
waiting for deathlike a catthat will jump on thebed I am so very sorry formy wife she will see thisstiffwhite bodyshake it once, thenmaybeagain “Hank!” Hank won’tanswer. it’s not my…
Van Gogh cut off his eargave it to aprostitutewho flung it away inextremedisgust.Van, whores don’t wantearsthey wantmoney.I guess that’s why you weresuch a greatpainter: youdidn’t understandmuchelse.