This poetry-thing is the worst sort of crutch. It weakens a man. And if a man is weak before he writes poetry he becomes, finally, through the strumming of shadows and wailing, he becomes finally what he is- just another fine pink juicy boy doing his god damned job in the frailest and most vomiting way. I also enjoy drinking, writing, eating, being a drifter, a grifter, a con artist, a lover, a fighter, a better, a loser. i like women of all sorts and shapes and sizes.
Music
Classical Music: Sibelius. Because of the long deep tonality. And a passion that knocks your lights out
Movies
Bar Fly: You've got to instinct what will suck you dry. Barfly is not a great film, but it kicks along. I've seen it 2 or 3 times, and it always makes me thirsty.
Books
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Flower, Fist and Bestial Wail, 1960
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Longshot Poems for Broke Players, 1962
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Run with the Hunted, 1962
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It Catches My Heart in Its Hands, 1963
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Crucifix in a Deathhand, 1965
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Cold Dogs in the Courtyard, 1965
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Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beasts, 1965
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All the Assholes in the World and Mine, 1966
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At Terror Street and Agony Way, 1968
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Poems Written Before Jumping out of an 8 Story Window, 1968
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Notes of a Dirty Old Man, 1969
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A Bukowski Sampler, 1969
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The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills, 1969
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Fire Station 1970
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Post Office, 1971
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Mockingbird Wish Me Luck 1972
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Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness, 1972
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South of No North, 1973
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Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973, 1974
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Factotum, 1975
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Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems 1974-1977, 1977
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Women, 1978
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Play the Piano Drunk/Like a Percussion Instrument/Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit, 1979
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Shakespeare Never Did This, 1979
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Dangling in the Tournefortia, 1981
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Ham on Rye, 1982
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Bring Me Your Love, 1983 ( Robert Crumb, illustrator.
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Most Beautiful Woman in Town & Other Stories, 1983
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Hot Water Music, 1983
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There's No Business, 1984
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War All the Time: Poems 1981-1984, 1984
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You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense, 1986
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The Movie: "Barfly", 1987
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The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966, 1988
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Tales of Ordinary Madness
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Hollywood, 1989
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Septuagenarian Stew: Stories & Poems, 1990
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The Last Night of the Earth Poems, 1992
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Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader (edited by John Martin), 1993 (audio edition, read by Bukowski)
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Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970, 1993
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Pulp, 1994
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Living On Luck: Letters Vol. 2 60's - 70's, 1995
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Betting on the Muse: Poems & Stories
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Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems
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The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship, 1998. Robert Crumb, illustrator.
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What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
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Open All Night: New Poems, Oct. 2000.
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Night Torn Mad With Footsteps, Sep. 2001.
Charles Bukowski wants you to know that your comments regarding voting for your music and reading your blog do not make me happy. Posted at 1:29 PM Oct 19 view more
About me: I was born in Andernach, Germany in the 1920's to an american soldier and a german mother. Moved to Los Angeles when I was about 3. I published my first short story, "Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip," when I was 24. From 1945 to 1955, I published only a few short stories then i published my first poetry at 35. I've never been lonely. I've been in a room- I've felt suicidal. I've been depressed. I've felt awful- awful beyond all- but I've never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me... or that any number of people could...
Charles Bukowski is buried at Green Hills Memorial Park at 27051 South Western Avenue in Rancho Palos Verdes, CA, 90275, Ocean View, Lot I, No. 875.
Who I'd like to meet: prostitutes, transvestites, fellow poets, ladies, a good bottle of whiskey.
4 - 0 Hank. The score was 4 fucking nil! The Norwegians gubbed us good-style. That little blonde-haired, poster-boy looking prick on the front row slotted the last one in from inside the 18yard box, like the final nail in a shitty old coffin. That's probably Scotland as a 'failed to qualify' for world cup finals yet AGAIN. I'm sick and goddamn tired of my country being crap at sport. The only ones we're any good at are curling (no-one knows what the fuck it is) and motorsport, but lately, some of our best motorsport champions seen to be dying unexpectedly young in tragic helicopter crashes. Why can't we, as a nation, be good at something for a change, other than alcohol-related violence statistics and heart-attacks?.....
I'll tell ye why, because then we wouldnae be fucking SCOTTISH anymore!!!!.....
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