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#bukowski poetry
irradiantflux · 2 days
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philosophors · 17 days
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“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?”
— Charles Bukowski
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y2kaee · 5 months
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"People empty me.
I have to get away to refill."
_ Charles Bukowski
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creatinganewwlife · 2 months
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Love is a Dog from Hell, Charles Bukowski
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litandlifequotes · 5 months
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She's mad but she's magic
“An Almost Made Up Poem” By Charles Bukowski
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“…and we drink our
coffee and pretend
not to look at
each other.”
— Charles Bukowski, Luck
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ardent-reflections · 10 months
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If you have the ability to love, love yourself first.
Charles Bukowski
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feelingsyouwontget · 7 months
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Often, the state of the kitchen is the state of the mind. confused and unsure men, pliable men are the thinkers. Their kitchens are like their minds, cluttered with garbage, dirty ware, impurity, but they are aware of their mind state and find some humor in it. /.../just as at times they will get half drunk and clean up their kitchens. But soon again all falls into disorder and they are in the darkness again.
The man with ever-orderly kitchen is the freak, however. Beware of him. His kitchen state is his mind state: all in order, settled, he has let life condition him quickly to a based and hardened complex of defensive and soothing thought order. If you listen to him for ten minutes you will know that anything he says in a lifetime will be essentially meaningless and always dull. He is a cement man. So, if you are looking for a living man, first check his kitchen and save yourself time.
Too sensitive, Tales of Ordinary Madness - Charles Bukowski
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shyam-kariya · 7 months
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accidentalpoetsstuff · 10 months
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You have to die a few times before you can really live.
- Bukowski
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irradiantflux · 10 days
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philosophors · 7 months
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“I was waiting for something extraordinary to happen, but as the years wasted on, nothing ever did unless I caused it.”
— Charles Bukowski
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mybrainbile · 17 days
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I said I don’t need it, but I’d bleed for it.
Take everything and scream for it.
Longing is a wonder-some beast,
a mind full of thoughts you dare not speak.
Nothing romantic about how as if I’m on drugs I tweak,
trying to find what goes in the hole inside me.
Warmth is something I do seek,
perhaps a love that’s kind, full, and sweet.
Of desperation, do I reek?
Something about me, they never commit.
They love my devotion, eyes starlit.
Reciprocation is something I’ve always missed.
I’ll never have my own Orpheus.
I’d raise my fist before I reminisce,
a mouth full of words I’d rather dismiss.
Tell me what it feels like to be loved when you’re kissed?
- afg
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andrea-non-sa-tornare · 8 months
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moonchild-in-blue · 6 months
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you are alone with now.
begin.
the day flings itself upon
you.
- "this moment", in what matter most is how well you walk through the fire, Charles Bukowski
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