Let it die. Let there be a new beginning. It’s awful. Goodnight. Charles Bukowski More Quotes by Charles Bukowski More Quotes From Charles Bukowski Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing. Charles Bukowski humorfunnysex I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age Charles Bukowski tiredspaceage to fight for each minute is to fight for what is possible within yourself, so that your life and your death will not be like theirs. Charles Bukowski minutesfighting As we live we all get caught and torn by various traps. Nobody escapes them. Some even live with them. The idea is to realize that a trap is a trap. If you are in one and you don't realize it, then you're finished. Charles Bukowski trapsrealizingideas The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless. Charles Bukowski skinswhitewings It’s so easy to be easy—if you let it. Charles Bukowski ifseasy I don't like jail, they got the wrong kind of bars in there. Charles Bukowski bailjaildrinking You can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. and the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. your life is your life. know it while you have it. Charles Bukowski levislightsometimes we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure. Charles Bukowski knowing-godlisteningknows you've got to burn straight up and down and then maybe sidewise for a while and have your guts scrambled by a bully and the demonic ladies, you've got to run along the edge of madness teetering, you've got to starve like a winter alleycat, you've go to live with the imbecility of at least a dozen cities, then maybe maybe maybe you might know where you are for a tiny blinking moment. Charles Bukowski citieswinterrunning I was fighting a small fight of my own which wasn't leading Charles Bukowski wallfightingheart not writing is not good but trying to write when you can't is worse. Charles Bukowski writingtrying Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit. Charles Bukowski pianodrunkplay Well, people got attatched. Once you cut the umbilical cord they attatched to the other things. Sight, sound, sex, money, mirages, mothers, masturbation, murder, and Monday morning hangovers. Charles Bukowski mothermondaymorning Some nights I knew that if I slept I would die. Charles Bukowski diesifsnight they simply never understand, do they, that sometimes solitude is one of the most beautiful things on earth? Charles Bukowski solitudeearthbeautiful My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other. Charles Bukowski bodyspiritsides all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble. Charles Bukowski horserunningbelieve There is something about writing poetry that brings a man close to the cliff's edge. Charles Bukowski cliffswritingmen i am with the roots of flowers entwined, entombed sending up my passionate blossoms as a flight of rockets and argument; wine churls my throat, above me feet walk upon my brain, monkies fall from the sky clutching photographs of the planets, but i seek only music and the leisure of my pain Charles Bukowski painflowerfall
