"Just show me where the bar is."

"So you wanna be a writer."
 
Money, fame,not the name of the game.
Refrain from torterous pain,
upon a plain violet bed,
Violently led,rummage instead,
Search the coriddors for word.

Pick up letters from ordained floor.
Exorcism on display.
Thousands cross the shores.
Tripping over the gold.
Be happy and poor.
 
What poor man do you know that's happy writing his life away,sitting in a cafe.Bored of his own voice, drinking wine and lying.

Words pop out,like a mothers breast In malnourished mouth.
 
Bleeting beatings.
Took a boy without,and claimed a torterous man magnifier.

"When you get the shit kicked out of you,long enough and long enough and long enough and long enough.
You have the tendency to say what you really mean. You have all the pretense,beat out  of you."(excerpt from an interview with Charles.)

Good luck with that. You arrogant twat!"
 
 
"So you wanna be a writer"  
Charles Bukowski.
 
 
 
 
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