Pure Poetry #24: Charles Bukowski then too I sometimes think of a less stressful kind of love- it can and should be so easyl ike falling asleep in a chair or like a church full of windows. sad enough, I wish only for that careless love which is sweet gentle and which is now (like this light over my head) there only to serve me while I smoke smoke smoke out of a certain center dressed in an old brown shirt, but I am caught under a pile of bricks; poetry is shot in the head and walks down the alley pissing on its legs. friends, stop writing of breathing in this sky of fire. հ.գ. պահը՝ ամբողջությամբ . . .
Posted on: Fri, 05 Jul 2013 11:01:08 +0000
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