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He is the turd floating in your toilet. He is the thick black pubic hair you can never seem to shave off. Actually, he’s dead. He is Charles Bukowski.

He says what you’re afraid to. He loathes himself publicly the way you do privately. Childlike in his vulgarity, he uses no filter because, like a child, he remains unafraid. Society, kicking his ass a hundred times over, has not shut him up. Even after death, he offends people all over the world without discrimination. He hates us all equally.

He drank the way you drink, but fought a lot harder. He fucked the way you do, but admitted when it was bad. He popped his boils in your face, he pissed in your beer, he knocked out the priest who baptized you. Then he wrote it down.

Perhaps most admirable is his pride in being an outlier of society. The outlier of society. Yes, he was insecure, he was self conscious and self hating, but he was also the most arrogant bastard on earth.

As a Bukowski virgin, reading his first book, I was sure that if I was in a room alone with him, he would rape me. Now, after having read most of his books and poetry, I’m only slightly concerned he might have raped me in a dark room.

If you haven’t read any of his works, read this.

Or, this poem:

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

xo
Lisa

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