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me and CB

 

internal struggle? let's dig. i love and hate this man. LOVE love and hate HATE. our similarities are obvious, are they not? i learned about bukowski when i was nineteen. i knew of him, knew the jist of him. but i never READ the man. i was nineteen, high on sex, lacking patnies, didn't own a toothbrush or have a place to live. i was backseatin' it in my PT, then known as The Bruiser. i met a lovely girl, Kel. she took me in, i started fucking her housemate, and we drank. we drank, drank and drank some more. wine. teeth darked, tongue busted, guts gone. bottles a night. it was a real good time. lot's of twilight, lots of talks. lots of reading. i read all her books. anais nin, bukowski, kerouac. my first bohemian experience, if it's not too douchey to say. so? where is all this going? fuck. i forgot. 

bukowski makes me sick. sick to my stomach, ill in my brain. 

he says brilliant things, and i just get my dick shitty.

i was talking about it with peter the other day. he was shocked to see me say I HATE BUKOWSKI. and i do. truly. he is a foul, awful shitting fucking menace. and THERE, that there is where all my love for him comes from. 

i despise and desire to BE him. to let go, to be truly foul. truly beat. 

struggle explained? 

or just another paragraph of bullshit filling up a page fill of nothing.

i am literally nothing more than a contradiction on two legs.