Tag Archives: henry chinaski
I called him “Bukowski”, because he wrote with the same disdain as the poet, and succumbed to all the same vices. He loved to drink, He loved to smoke, and he loved women, one in particular, me. He wrote often. … Continue reading
Last night, I was the girl in glasses, alone at a bar, with a book, which basically made me, a sitting duck. I knew this, but I had gone to hear my friend play his guitar, and I was going … Continue reading
I should probably put the pen down, because I might make a mess, but there’s a few things here, I want to confess. I just dyed my hair, because I thought I saw a random grey, I bought new jeans … Continue reading
It’s Sunday night, and I only write poems on Fridays. This is a problem, because, there is a poem stuck inside, and though it’s near the surface, the next five days, are going to feel, like an eternity in hell, … Continue reading
Last Christmas, I gave him a Ninja Turtle ornament, because he invited me over, and I felt I should show up with something, besides my musical ability, and manic state. We had been impromptu jamming, on and off, for months, … Continue reading
I’d like to pay homage, to the following men, those I wish, to never see again. The one who flirted with the waitress, the one who may have been racist, the one in love with his ex, the one who … Continue reading
I wrote a song about you, it wasn’t good. The rhythm was off, the melody too complicated. I didn’t know how to end it, so I just let it fade.