sábado, 21 de junio de 2014

Bukowski acerca de la gente

The whole place is diseased by the presence of everybody but myself. Now Linda is gonna come back. I’m not gonna be happy when she comes back. Pretend, I say hi. I just don’t want people. I only like myself. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t know what it is, but I’m not gonna try to cure it. All I want is what I am. I’m gonna keep pumping up what I love. You smell a rose up your asshole. Your asshole is dead shit to begin with. It doesn’t matter if there are roses up but, or a thorns dick.


God! You, kids, don’t understand any decency of any sort. You are just so subliminal or sublime. To whatever occurrence you just ride a tender little wave of nowhere. They have no original courage of definition. You’re all flat pancake mamas with syrup spilled over your head. You have nothing. You have no direction. You have no motive. All you want is money. You don’t even know what money is; you want it. But when you get it, you wouldn’t even know what to do with it. Just smear it up your asshole and swallow it, up your nostrils of death. 

And I know less than you either. You know I talk about it; at least I smooth it out and dance it around, which makes more sense than just letting sits down.

I’m pretty clever in spite of my dumbness. Don’t worry. I handle my asshole. Twirl, twirl.

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