Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning, when you wake up before the sun comes out. It's just a little while, and then it burns away... Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality. Charles Bukowski More Quotes by Charles Bukowski More Quotes From Charles Bukowski Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing. Charles Bukowski humor funny sex I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age Charles Bukowski tired space age 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 minutes fighting 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 traps realizing ideas 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 skins white wings It’s so easy to be easy—if you let it. Charles Bukowski ifs easy I don't like jail, they got the wrong kind of bars in there. Charles Bukowski bail jail drinking 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 levis light sometimes we know God is dead, they've told us, but listening to you I wasn't sure. Charles Bukowski knowing-god listening knows 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 cities winter running I was fighting a small fight of my own which wasn't leading Charles Bukowski wall fighting heart not writing is not good but trying to write when you can't is worse. Charles Bukowski writing trying Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit. Charles Bukowski piano drunk play 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 mother monday morning Some nights I knew that if I slept I would die. Charles Bukowski dies ifs night they simply never understand, do they, that sometimes solitude is one of the most beautiful things on earth? Charles Bukowski solitude earth beautiful My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other. Charles Bukowski body spirit sides 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 horse running believe There is something about writing poetry that brings a man close to the cliff's edge. Charles Bukowski cliffs writing men 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 pain flower fall
