Charles Bukowski ate my hamster
Charles Bukowski wore my hat
Charles Bukowski screwed my mistress
Charles Bukowski stole my cat
I’ve already whinged about why writing a blog is such is stupendous misplaced waste of time and effort. And why the “blogosphere” (god help us all) is the bastard son of Facebook.
But today I found a Bukowski poem that hit the nail on the head. I won’t quote the whole thing but
“they thought that writing had
something to do with
the politics of the
they were simply not
in the head
to sit down to a
and let the words bang out.
they didn’t want to write
they wanted to
Which is proof that I am a) right and b) not fit to suck Bukowski’s left teat but I’m pretty sure he would never have written a blog.
I can’t even be bothered to say on the front page what the hell this is about because I don’t know and frankly, if I did, I wouldn’t have anything to write about in the first place.
Charles Bukowski crossed my gender
Charles Bukowski scanned my rhymes
Charles Bukowski knew the truth and
Charles Bukowski told my lies.
Cheer Up. I can’t stay this self-referential forever, and given the fact that Mr B has made an appearance it’s only a matter of time before I get salacious.