V

In which I talk about crap as well as just talking it

This is my literature overload night. From what I hear, it's pretty common. So in search of some shite to soothe me, I came across this:


Bukowski, along with the band of bummers that is the Beats, is the kind of author I mentally belittle people for liking. For kicks, you know. But some days (such as today) I need to descend from the paper castle for air. And so the smell of H pie comes wafting along. On the one hand I don't think Bukowski is someone to be particularly admired, imitated or romaticised. But this sad fuck is voicing something I think every day, except he had the guts or arrogance to think he could do better. I usually put it down to my ignorance of contemporary literature of any kind (grand Franzen glasses theft aside), but damn, the shit's really flung about in carefully packaged heaps these dayse. Picked up one the other week, some magazine called Popshot. The name should have warned me.

So if anyone is reading this, and think you know better, hook me up to this word fountain I've missed. And by the way, I might not think much of it, but I actually do enjoy old Charlie B's work. I'm gonna have to work this out slowly...