i’ve spent half my life trying to understand bukowski
so that i could write poetry like he did.
i guess i’ve since realised that
bukowski wrote to make people wish they were bukowski, and that is art in itself:
when words can make you wish you were a worse human being just so that you could be better at your craft!
the very sacrifice of self to another in order to sacrifice yourself again,
to lose yourself in someone who lost themselves at the bottom of a hipflask
and to try to find yourself in a circle of screaming at your loved ones between meals.
the notes of a dirty old man have brought thousands screeching to a halt
to ponder the profundity of bad, bad people,
to glorify the terrible in the world for the rest of their days.
heroes are only human.