I dream she’ll crave
the cream of my crop;
till she asks me first,
I’ll ash alone.

Listening to Bukowski
talk about poetry
makes you want to read him.

Reading Bukowski
makes you want to read
anybody else.

My name’s Charles Bukowski.
Everybody’s bullshit stinks.
Except mine.

Mine smells fine

The pond that keeps
each drop for itself
dies.

The pond that shares
each drop it receives
lives.

Ūnā nōs ipsōs refingimus.
Together,
we remake ourselves.

Merry Christmas to everyone,
Except the Mr. Potters.
Despite those rotters,
It’s still a wonderful life!

My only real regret:
I should’ve started sooner.
Get started—today. Now.

Songs don’t save the world.
They save people.

…And people do the rest.

Some call them “sluts.”
I, too, am a “slut,”
In their sense:
I also like sex.

Yet I insist:
Love is made together,
With a lover,
Not thrust upon anyone.

Let them keep art attic’d
and love as their refuge;
We’ll keep art alive
and love as our forge.

Body Electric, Lana Del Rey

Whitman is my daddy
Monaco's my mother
Diamonds are my bestest friend
Heaven is my baby
Suicide's her father
Opulence is the end

Electric Body

Burns is my brother
Keats’s my cousin
Blake is my bestest friend
Heaven is embodied
Wakening through labour
Poetry is our end

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