phil ochs and darby crash. hanging and heroin. blue circles and nooses.

pdf, with thanks to the original sharer

bums don't bullshit, bums don't stick pick up chicks, they say every dog has its day, die tomorrow or die today. we were both looking for winter coats. the bum will tell me a story, if i have one minute, that's how long it takes, i didn't understand every word but one time this bum had twenty-two dollars so he wanted to buy this other guy breakfast, he turned out to be an fbi agent, and i think he took this bum's money, so when next he saw this government man, he gets him so mad he blows up and hits the bum. then the bum kicks his ass and the fbi agent loses his job. see, now he'll never make captain, that seems fair to me. bums grow disabilities, bad teeth, slow legs, no coats, and can't recall the right words, this one kept asking me, "what's the other word?" but he said one thing, that he's always liked me and once tried to tell me but i didn't hear him. bums don't pick up chicks, they don't bounce checks, don't pay rent, sore teeth, see too much of everything and don't have any body to tell.

they all talk about the same god n become angry when you look away

epub or mobi [dead links, see comments]

one mother – sweet, one father – fucked, one brother – sucsessfull, my grandfather, a short little cunt who never had an inside toilet, door-to-door salesmen vending religion, some fucking freek with a beard n a weetabix jumper, 5 year old girl on the buss, the prostitutes on chatham hi street, dolli, tone, mick, crazy sally, sanchia and her sister, her hungarian grandmother, her uncle colin, this bloke ron, a fuck happy gypo with a pice of gold in his ear, the kissing lovers outside scamps discoteq, the drunk who threw himself off of the castle, some punk rocker, that fruity bitch nexed door, the painters, the poets, the musicians, the teachers, the dockers, the mad men, the unemployed, the believers, the murderers, the perverts, the MPs, the till girls, the car park attendants, the dead and the dieing, everyboidy in the world who wanted one thing but got something else

"is that all he can write about, whores and puking?"

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

 Coronado Street: 1954 

            listen, I been in the navy and I never heard cussing like you and

            your girlfriend, man, and it lasts all night, every night.

            we got religious people here, children, decent working folk, you’re

            keeping them awake every night and look at this place! everything’s

            broken, when I evict you you’ve got to pay to replace everything, buddy!

            what do you mean, you don’t have no fucking money?

            what do you buy all that booze with?

            credit?

            don’t give me that!

            listen, I want it so quiet in here tonight we’ll be able to hear the

            church mice pray!

            what’s that?

            well, up yours too, buddy!

            and you wanna know what?

            I saw your old lady sucking some guy’s banana in the alley!

            you don’t give a damn?

            what do you give a damn about?

            nothing?

            what kind of shit is that, nothing!

            did you get a lobotomy somewhere along the way?

            I got a good mind to wipe up the floor with you!

            you say I’m the one with a lobotomy?

            hey, don’t go closing the door on me, pal!

            I own this fucking place!

            OPEN UP, BUDDY! I’M COMING IN!

            WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?

            HEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?

the class stand by their desks - good morning mister childish

epub or mobi

At 20 I was this bright, damaged kid trying to rite my way out of a concockted hell.I had to deal with my childhood sexual abuse, the mental abuse of my oftern absent, alcohlic father and all the normal crap of no education and no one looking out for me. Luckerly, I am possessed of an extream sence of humoure that understands that ultimately everything is funny. I often tell people that I am not a painter, I'm not a musician and what sort of idiot would want to be a poet? Young riters come to me and show me their wounds and I say - the gutter is a fine place to start from but a shit place to stay - pick up your bed and walk!

Bukowski Blow Out

                        9 various books,mostly pdf,a couple of epubs,(6MB) with thanks to the original sharers

Bukowski cried when Judy Garland sang at the N.Y. Philharmonic, Bukowski cried when Shirley Temple sang "I Got Animal Crackers In My Soup"; Bukowski cried in cheap flophouses, Bukowski can't dress, Bukowski can't talk, Bukowski is scared of women, Bukowski has a bad stomach, Bukowski is full of fears and hates dictionaries, nuns, pennies, busses, parkbenches, spiders, flies, fleas, freaks; Bukowski didn't go to war. Bukowski is old,Bukowski hasn't flown a kite for 45 years; if Bukowski were an ape they'd run him out of the tribe -Tales of Ordinary Madness

born in madness

                                                                       with a good sence of humour