Bukowski, the poet.



There was a man whose mind was like razor wire. So taught, severely cool, contemptuous of regimented order, brazenly insubordinate to all fuckwittery in society, and basically a glowering, raucous, untamed intellect of unashamed stupendousness. The man was Charles Bukowski, someone who would have gone left if told to go right, who lived his life with one hand on a whisky bottle, and the middle finger of his other hand raised to a world whose statutory mores he didn’t give a flying fuck about.

Death Wants More Death is the great poet contemplating one moment in a childhood when he took charge. The unfortunate victim of this act was a spider he saw in his father’s garage. He tricks the spider into thinking it’s prey was escaping the web, then crushes it with a surge of inner pride at wresting control from another living thing, and by doing, empowers himself…

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