And write poems about his drinking.
Bukowski liked to write poems about his many conquests.
Bukowski liked to write poems about being drunk with his conquests.
Bukowski liked to write poems about nobody believing he'd had so many conquests because he was such a drunk and then drinking with his conquests over it.
Bukowski grew up in the depression, had terrible acne, and was the subject of many beatings.
Bukowski got divorced and was hospitalized and women he loved died and his gravestone read "Don't Try."
Don't get me wrong. I love Bukowski. I have several of his books, many of which I take pleasure in reading and re-reading again. Bukowski is a fantastic poet, undoubtedly. I would defend his work to the ends of the Earth, I love it all that much.
Bukowski's work is fantastic.
Bukowski is also, one messed up, screwed in the brain, depressed, empty, insane individual, who was thrown under the bus so many times he's lost count of all right and wrong or extreme sensitivities to the human condition. While that may be the perfect recipe for a poet, I wouldn't trust the man to hold my sandwich, much less predict the end of the world.
I can defend the poet as a poet, but nothing further than that.
