words are all we have.

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  • _ofwords 5w

    'I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted"


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    Skid Row Wine

    I coulda done a lot worse than sit
    in Skid Row drinkin wine

    To know that nothing matters after all
    To know there's no real difference
    between the rich and the poor
    To know that eternity is neither drunk
    nor sober, to know it young
    and be a poet

    Coulda gone into business and ranted
    And believed that God was concerned

    Instead I squatted in lonesome alleys
    And no one saw me, just my bottle
    and what they saw of it was empty 

    And I did it in the cornfields & graveyards

    To know that the dead don't make noise
    To know that the cornstalks talk (among
    one another with raspy old arms)

    Sittin in alleys diggin the neons
    And watching cathedral custodians
    Wring out their rags neath the church steps 

    Sittin and drinkin wine
    And in railyards being devine

    To be a millionaire & yet to prefer
    Curling up with a poor boy of tokay
    In a warehouse door, facing long sunsets
    On railroad fields of grass

    To know that the sleepers in the river
    are dreaming vain dreams, to squat
    in the night and know it well

    To be dark solitary eye-nerve watcher
    of the world's whirling diamond

    -Jack Kerouac

  • _ofwords 5w

    Yesterday was the very birthday of the great Sylvia Plath. Are you also enamoured with her?

    "I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo"


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    I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands and turned up and be utterly
    How free it is, you have no idea how free.

    -Sylvia Plath

  • _ofwords 5w

    Bukowski: "Writing. often it is the only
    between you and
    no drink,
    no woman's love,
    no wealth
    match it."


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    so you want to be a writer?

    If it doesn't come bursting out of you
    in spite of everything,
    don't do it.
    unless it comes unasked out of your
    heart and your mind and your mouth
    and your gut,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit for hours
    staring at your computer screen
    or hunched over your
    searching for words,
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it for money or
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it because you want
    women in your bed,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit there and
    rewrite it again and again,
    don't do it.
    if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
    don't do it.
    if you're trying to write like somebody
    forget about it.

    if you have to wait for it to roar out of
    then wait patiently.
    if it never does roar out of you,
    do something else.

    if you first have to read it to your wife
    or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
    or your parents or to anybody at all,
    you're not ready.

    don't be like so many writers,
    don't be like so many thousands of
    people who call themselves writers,
    don't be dull and boring and
    pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
    the libraries of the world have
    yawned themselves to
    over your kind.
    don't add to that.
    don't do it.
    unless it comes out of
    your soul like a rocket,
    unless being still would
    drive you to madness or
    suicide or murder,
    don't do it.
    unless the sun inside you is
    burning your gut,
    don't do it.

    when it is truly time,
    and if you have been chosen,
    it will do it by
    itself and it will keep on doing it
    until you die or it dies in you.

    there is no other way.

    and there never was.

    - Charles Bukowski

  • _ofwords 5w

    "I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again."


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    it wasn't my day.

    my week.

    my month.

    my year.

    my life.

    God damn it!

    - Charles Bukowski

  • _ofwords 5w

    "my father always said, “early to bed and
    early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
    and wise.”

    it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
    and we were up at dawn to the smell of
    coffee, frying bacon and scrambled

    my father followed this general routine
    for a lifetime and died young, broke,
    and, I think, not too

    taking note, I rejected his advice and it
    became, for me, late to bed and late
    to rise.

    now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
    the world but I’ve avoided
    numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
    common pitfalls
    and have met some strange, wonderful

    one of whom
    myself—someone my father


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    a smile to remember

    we had goldfish and they circled around and
    in the bowl on the table near the heavy
    covering the picture window and
    my mother, always smiling , wanting us all
    to be happy, told me , ‘be happy Henry!’
    and she was right: it was better to be happy if
    but my father continued to beat her and me
    several times a week while
    raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because
    he couldn’t
    understand what was attacking him from within .

    my mother poor fish
    wanting to be happy,beaten two or three
    times a
    week,telling me to be happy:’Henry , smile!
    why don’t you ever smile?!

    and then she would smile, to show me how,
    and it was the
    saddest smile I ever saw

    one day the goldfish died , all five of them,
    they floated on the water, on their sides, their
    eyes still open,
    and when my father got home he threw them
    to the cat
    there on the kitchen floor
    and we watched as my mother

    - Charles Bukowski