Let me put this out there, I fucking hate poetry. It's a hateful form, all flowers and rhymes and insincere crap designed to charm the panties off unsuspecting and foolish people and I spent most of my life hating it. I have been shamed by the fact that I've been writing it since I was 12.
So imagine my surprise when someone, I think it was an ex-wife, read some of my horrible shit and said it reminded her of this Bukowski guy. I picked up a book at random, I think it was Factotum, and well, my whole fucking perception changed. This was the real thing, the hard stuff, the straight from the rotgut scene unvarnished and uncaring and it had me completely hooked. I devoured everything I could about the man and drank heavily and still there was more. More booze and more words and more Bukowski. This shitty drunk asshole wrote some of the most honest, beautiful, touching things I've ever in my life seen.
And now a few years later I find a whole god damned forum devoted to him, full of the worshipers and the poets and the drunks. I am at last proud to meet you, and proud to say,
Hello.
So imagine my surprise when someone, I think it was an ex-wife, read some of my horrible shit and said it reminded her of this Bukowski guy. I picked up a book at random, I think it was Factotum, and well, my whole fucking perception changed. This was the real thing, the hard stuff, the straight from the rotgut scene unvarnished and uncaring and it had me completely hooked. I devoured everything I could about the man and drank heavily and still there was more. More booze and more words and more Bukowski. This shitty drunk asshole wrote some of the most honest, beautiful, touching things I've ever in my life seen.
And now a few years later I find a whole god damned forum devoted to him, full of the worshipers and the poets and the drunks. I am at last proud to meet you, and proud to say,
Hello.
