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Here's a quote from my favourite Charles Bukowski poem:
"look, Mike, no man is
invincible.
some day
you'll be sent mad by
eyes like a child's crayon
drawing. you won't be
able to drink a glass of
water or walk across a
room. there will be the
walls and the sound of
the streets outside, and
you'll hear machineguns
and mortar shells. that'll
be when you want it and
can't have it."
And my god, did that ever happen to me this weekend. I met a girl a week or so ago, a friend of a friend of a friend. We went out as a group, but mostly I just talked, drank and danced with her. I don't know why I didn't pull her; I could have and should have, but I didn't. I went home thinking a cross between 'meh, always another night' and 'meh, plenty more where that came from'. But the next night I wrote about her in my not-quite-a-diary, not-quite-just-fiction notebook. The next night I wrote about her again. I could post the stuff I came up with here and you would all want to beat me to death with baseball bats; it was borderline love poetry - nothing wrong with that except that after a while it became more fluffy bullcrap than honest words.
This weekend we all went out together again. We were drinking in a mate's house beforehand, and she and I were talking, ignoring everyone else and saying silly, flirty things. We walked to the bus stop together, miles behind the others; her shoes didn't fit her properly so she had her arm in mine to stop herself falling over; and I had what can only be described as a semi. From walking along the freaking road. We got into the club and I waited with her in the queue for the cloakroom, and when she took off her jacket there were curves where I expected nothing, and I damn near fell over. We did clubby things. At some point I decided that my mate was trying to pull her, although he wasn't. I've never hit anybody in my life but I was ready to tear one of my best friends limb from limb. Long story short: I turned into a jealous, hormonal fifteen year old schoolboy. And then I tried to pull her, and it was the most excruciating and unmitigated disaster in the history of the world in space. She looked at me and stole everything: my charm, my words, my wit, my coordination, my ability to keep drool inside my mouth, my capacity for rational thought. I said stuff, each sentence more stupid than the last. At every opportunity I had to stop, I kept digging. By the end, my mouth was just opening and shutting stupidly, and she gave me a sad look and wandered off. By the end of the night she seemed to have forgiven me, but by then I was too bad-tempered to care.
'that'll be when you want it and can't have it', indeed.
I hate and love the way this girl has made me feel. I don't like the way I am consumed with violent jealousy towards my friends; but I do quite like sitting in the pub with a mate and knowing that, while he gormlessly sips his pint, I am planning his many dooms if he looks at her just one more time. I like waking up in the morning feeling sick; I don't like not being able to eat breakfast. I like smiling to myself a thousand times a day; I hate wincing at the memory of how comprehensively I dicked things up. I like having the thought of her distract me while I'm at work; but I wish she'd get out of my head and let me have lunch in peace.
Bah, stupid testosterone.
"look, Mike, no man is
invincible.
some day
you'll be sent mad by
eyes like a child's crayon
drawing. you won't be
able to drink a glass of
water or walk across a
room. there will be the
walls and the sound of
the streets outside, and
you'll hear machineguns
and mortar shells. that'll
be when you want it and
can't have it."
And my god, did that ever happen to me this weekend. I met a girl a week or so ago, a friend of a friend of a friend. We went out as a group, but mostly I just talked, drank and danced with her. I don't know why I didn't pull her; I could have and should have, but I didn't. I went home thinking a cross between 'meh, always another night' and 'meh, plenty more where that came from'. But the next night I wrote about her in my not-quite-a-diary, not-quite-just-fiction notebook. The next night I wrote about her again. I could post the stuff I came up with here and you would all want to beat me to death with baseball bats; it was borderline love poetry - nothing wrong with that except that after a while it became more fluffy bullcrap than honest words.
This weekend we all went out together again. We were drinking in a mate's house beforehand, and she and I were talking, ignoring everyone else and saying silly, flirty things. We walked to the bus stop together, miles behind the others; her shoes didn't fit her properly so she had her arm in mine to stop herself falling over; and I had what can only be described as a semi. From walking along the freaking road. We got into the club and I waited with her in the queue for the cloakroom, and when she took off her jacket there were curves where I expected nothing, and I damn near fell over. We did clubby things. At some point I decided that my mate was trying to pull her, although he wasn't. I've never hit anybody in my life but I was ready to tear one of my best friends limb from limb. Long story short: I turned into a jealous, hormonal fifteen year old schoolboy. And then I tried to pull her, and it was the most excruciating and unmitigated disaster in the history of the world in space. She looked at me and stole everything: my charm, my words, my wit, my coordination, my ability to keep drool inside my mouth, my capacity for rational thought. I said stuff, each sentence more stupid than the last. At every opportunity I had to stop, I kept digging. By the end, my mouth was just opening and shutting stupidly, and she gave me a sad look and wandered off. By the end of the night she seemed to have forgiven me, but by then I was too bad-tempered to care.
'that'll be when you want it and can't have it', indeed.
I hate and love the way this girl has made me feel. I don't like the way I am consumed with violent jealousy towards my friends; but I do quite like sitting in the pub with a mate and knowing that, while he gormlessly sips his pint, I am planning his many dooms if he looks at her just one more time. I like waking up in the morning feeling sick; I don't like not being able to eat breakfast. I like smiling to myself a thousand times a day; I hate wincing at the memory of how comprehensively I dicked things up. I like having the thought of her distract me while I'm at work; but I wish she'd get out of my head and let me have lunch in peace.
Bah, stupid testosterone.
Page:
Yup curb your desires for the female flesh and one day the Earth will be yours my son.
(And it leaves more totty for sag jr to infiltrate)
(And it leaves more totty for sag jr to infiltrate)
Oh, how easily women can unconsciously pull the heart-strings of men.
Reign in that anger and jealousy, it won't ever do you any good.
Reign in that anger and jealousy, it won't ever do you any good.
I enjoyed reading that. Just thought I'd tell you. It was like nosing in someone's diary.
That is the kind of quote I should get put on a badge.
I've not read Pulp, but I just went to Amazon to have a look for it. Is it your list of life enhancing reads that pops up when you search for Bukowski? Some very cool books on there, and a couple I've never heard of. I like reading other people's lists; I might make one of my own as a service to humanity.
Anyway I'm ordering Pulp, but I'm not going to read it just yet. I want to wander the streets with my shirt off a bit more, mumbling 'me want woman', and looking lovelorn in the moonlight.
I've not read Pulp, but I just went to Amazon to have a look for it. Is it your list of life enhancing reads that pops up when you search for Bukowski? Some very cool books on there, and a couple I've never heard of. I like reading other people's lists; I might make one of my own as a service to humanity.
Anyway I'm ordering Pulp, but I'm not going to read it just yet. I want to wander the streets with my shirt off a bit more, mumbling 'me want woman', and looking lovelorn in the moonlight.
And Bukowski also has the antidote, from "Pulp":
She walked in and every head swung in her direction. You could feel the eyes follow her and she knew it too. All except this one guy next to me, he just kept drinking and didn't break his stride.
I turned to him and said "What's the matter, you don't like women?".
He took a long pull on his drink and said without looking "Somebody somewhere is already bored of her"
She walked in and every head swung in her direction. You could feel the eyes follow her and she knew it too. All except this one guy next to me, he just kept drinking and didn't break his stride.
I turned to him and said "What's the matter, you don't like women?".
He took a long pull on his drink and said without looking "Somebody somewhere is already bored of her"
Here's a quote from my favourite Charles Bukowski poem:
"look, Mike, no man is
invincible.
some day
you'll be sent mad by
eyes like a child's crayon
drawing. you won't be
able to drink a glass of
water or walk across a
room. there will be the
walls and the sound of
the streets outside, and
you'll hear machineguns
and mortar shells. that'll
be when you want it and
can't have it."
And my god, did that ever happen to me this weekend. I met a girl a week or so ago, a friend of a friend of a friend. We went out as a group, but mostly I just talked, drank and danced with her. I don't know why I didn't pull her; I could have and should have, but I didn't. I went home thinking a cross between 'meh, always another night' and 'meh, plenty more where that came from'. But the next night I wrote about her in my not-quite-a-diary, not-quite-just-fiction notebook. The next night I wrote about her again. I could post the stuff I came up with here and you would all want to beat me to death with baseball bats; it was borderline love poetry - nothing wrong with that except that after a while it became more fluffy bullcrap than honest words.
This weekend we all went out together again. We were drinking in a mate's house beforehand, and she and I were talking, ignoring everyone else and saying silly, flirty things. We walked to the bus stop together, miles behind the others; her shoes didn't fit her properly so she had her arm in mine to stop herself falling over; and I had what can only be described as a semi. From walking along the freaking road. We got into the club and I waited with her in the queue for the cloakroom, and when she took off her jacket there were curves where I expected nothing, and I damn near fell over. We did clubby things. At some point I decided that my mate was trying to pull her, although he wasn't. I've never hit anybody in my life but I was ready to tear one of my best friends limb from limb. Long story short: I turned into a jealous, hormonal fifteen year old schoolboy. And then I tried to pull her, and it was the most excruciating and unmitigated disaster in the history of the world in space. She looked at me and stole everything: my charm, my words, my wit, my coordination, my ability to keep drool inside my mouth, my capacity for rational thought. I said stuff, each sentence more stupid than the last. At every opportunity I had to stop, I kept digging. By the end, my mouth was just opening and shutting stupidly, and she gave me a sad look and wandered off. By the end of the night she seemed to have forgiven me, but by then I was too bad-tempered to care.
'that'll be when you want it and can't have it', indeed.
I hate and love the way this girl has made me feel. I don't like the way I am consumed with violent jealousy towards my friends; but I do quite like sitting in the pub with a mate and knowing that, while he gormlessly sips his pint, I am planning his many dooms if he looks at her just one more time. I like waking up in the morning feeling sick; I don't like not being able to eat breakfast. I like smiling to myself a thousand times a day; I hate wincing at the memory of how comprehensively I dicked things up. I like having the thought of her distract me while I'm at work; but I wish she'd get out of my head and let me have lunch in peace.
Bah, stupid testosterone.
"look, Mike, no man is
invincible.
some day
you'll be sent mad by
eyes like a child's crayon
drawing. you won't be
able to drink a glass of
water or walk across a
room. there will be the
walls and the sound of
the streets outside, and
you'll hear machineguns
and mortar shells. that'll
be when you want it and
can't have it."
And my god, did that ever happen to me this weekend. I met a girl a week or so ago, a friend of a friend of a friend. We went out as a group, but mostly I just talked, drank and danced with her. I don't know why I didn't pull her; I could have and should have, but I didn't. I went home thinking a cross between 'meh, always another night' and 'meh, plenty more where that came from'. But the next night I wrote about her in my not-quite-a-diary, not-quite-just-fiction notebook. The next night I wrote about her again. I could post the stuff I came up with here and you would all want to beat me to death with baseball bats; it was borderline love poetry - nothing wrong with that except that after a while it became more fluffy bullcrap than honest words.
This weekend we all went out together again. We were drinking in a mate's house beforehand, and she and I were talking, ignoring everyone else and saying silly, flirty things. We walked to the bus stop together, miles behind the others; her shoes didn't fit her properly so she had her arm in mine to stop herself falling over; and I had what can only be described as a semi. From walking along the freaking road. We got into the club and I waited with her in the queue for the cloakroom, and when she took off her jacket there were curves where I expected nothing, and I damn near fell over. We did clubby things. At some point I decided that my mate was trying to pull her, although he wasn't. I've never hit anybody in my life but I was ready to tear one of my best friends limb from limb. Long story short: I turned into a jealous, hormonal fifteen year old schoolboy. And then I tried to pull her, and it was the most excruciating and unmitigated disaster in the history of the world in space. She looked at me and stole everything: my charm, my words, my wit, my coordination, my ability to keep drool inside my mouth, my capacity for rational thought. I said stuff, each sentence more stupid than the last. At every opportunity I had to stop, I kept digging. By the end, my mouth was just opening and shutting stupidly, and she gave me a sad look and wandered off. By the end of the night she seemed to have forgiven me, but by then I was too bad-tempered to care.
'that'll be when you want it and can't have it', indeed.
I hate and love the way this girl has made me feel. I don't like the way I am consumed with violent jealousy towards my friends; but I do quite like sitting in the pub with a mate and knowing that, while he gormlessly sips his pint, I am planning his many dooms if he looks at her just one more time. I like waking up in the morning feeling sick; I don't like not being able to eat breakfast. I like smiling to myself a thousand times a day; I hate wincing at the memory of how comprehensively I dicked things up. I like having the thought of her distract me while I'm at work; but I wish she'd get out of my head and let me have lunch in peace.
Bah, stupid testosterone.
Page: