Portions from a Wine Stained Notebook

My head aches like a cocoanut rolling over the rocks.

He’s full of eggs and doughnuts.

The Arts are candy cream, no problem.

I am too much a saga of a certain type of person: fuzzy blackness, impractical meditations, and repressed desires.

…Oh, I should have stayed at the hospital, tinkering with people, painting at night.  I could have made my own world at night.  But I wanted to stir the whole pond, shake the base.  Oh hunger-hunger.

I hurled myself toward my personal god: SIMPLICITY

It was the time for jazz and oranges, shaking buttocks.

Let us not leave life to the idiots to spill like some poor porridge, or the girls on gin.

Could I but wash away meaning like a sore, and would that the animal in my wisdom eat and disgorge my tender brain.

The animal-drive and energy of my fellow man amazed me: that a man could change tires all day long or drive an ice cream truck or run for Congress or cut into a man’s guts in surgery or murder, this was all beyond me.

Do you want an ending? write it yourself.

*Compilations from Bukowski