I’m cashing checks. Snapping necks. Turning down sex. PR, max sets. Demons haunting, night sweats. Never blondes. Brunettes. Let’s gamble. roulettes? 20k on black, top bets. It’s red. I have debts. No regrets. Find nearest mirror, flex, laugh, growl, light Cigarettes
Bukowski sitting at his typewriter every night. Never before the suns down. 6 pack of cheap. 2 bottles of wine. Red. The ‘saddest’. His goal, 10 pages. Then: worship, his church & religion. Morning comes. Blacks in. Now to decipher everything that happened last night
We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
Bukowski
this calmness is disrupted as she takes the back of my head into both hands and pushes my face into the bed. She lay her whole weight on me. I’m gasping for breath and sheets are getting tangled in my tongue and I’m awake now but I can’t move.
Ex text last night but I see the timing & this time is just around the hour I suffered from sleep paralysis.
A scene that played out as such: I lay on my back in bed. It’s dark. only dim shadows visible. Streak of blonde hair catches eye at the door - left. I recognize the face-
I wonder what song my mother listened to with her friends on warm summer days like this. Driving around in that tiny red convertible I’ve heard so many stories of - the same one she mentioned driving to Florida during one night, with her friend, the night she took too much acid