from "SCREAMS FROM THE BALCONY" by Charles Bukowski

Black day, they have kicked my horse-ass good. Girlfriend said I was as drunk the other night as she´d ever seen me. I used vile lang and yanked the mattress off her bed and then leaned back in chair and gave 2 hours lecture (while drinking)on the arts and what they meant or didn´t mean and who was what and why.Kid I´m definitely cracking. These last 3 or 4 months have ended me. I think I´m written out. I´ve said it all. What the hell else? I don´t care. I´ve still got the horses and the whores and Schlitz. Let these 19 year old editors gobble the gugga of rooster. I´m going to try to buy a shack somewhere and give everything up. Just be dirty old man waiting to die. I´m sick of all the 8 hour faces and laughter and babble, Dodger talk and pussy talk and zero talk. A roof no rent. That´s my aim. Pick up enough washing dishes 3 times a week or pimping. Lord I´m sick of it all. And poetry too. No wonder Van Gogh blasted his head off. Cros and sunlight. Idle zero. Zero eating your guts like an animal inside, letting you shit and fuck and blink your eyes, but nothing, a nothing. Christ, I´m watching a guy water his lawn now. His mind is empty as a department store flowerbowl. Water. Water. Water. Make the grass go green. GREAT. GREAT.