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/lit/ - Literature

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Does not a novel make.
he was more based than you will ever be
Can’t argue wit dat.
Men always shit on Sylvia Plath while reading this garbage
He looks like a hideous animatronic. A character from the Dark Crystal or something.
i dropped factotum when he talks about how he didn't wiped his ass good enough and left a trail of shit on his bed. either it was metaphorically or literally, i didn't care. it was just enough of this hack for me.
some of his poems are good, i must admit.
Had to make a cope thread after getting BTFO’d in the other one, eh little guy?
It's true though. Only a borderline illiterate, juvenile, retarded baboon could find his work even remotely attractive.
This thread was made before yours. You're genuinely retarded
That's how you distinguish men from failed, alienated apes. If a man tells you how much he relates to and appreciates Bukowski, you know you have a disgusting specimen in front of you and you ought to run away. In the sea of authors they could attach their despair to, they chose the most repulsive one. Just leave them to rot!
My biggest gripe with Bukowski is that he forever solidified the conception that to be "working class" you must write like a caveman.
Jack London is the actual proletarian hero; a working man who also had a big heart and a sharp mind. A REAL man.
Cope detected. Also, source?
the bait is getting stale
>attempts to call out bait
>copes instead
He's living proof that you can push shit hard enough and publishers will take it.
A thread died for this.
the hecks a blurp?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that .
wants to get out.
but I'm too tough for him,.
I say,.
stay down, do you want to mess.
me up?.
you want to screw up the.
you want to blow my book sales in .
there's a bluebird in my heart that.
wants to get out.
but I'm too clever, I only let him out.
at night sometimes.
when everybody's asleep..
I say, I know that you're there,.
so don't be .
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
when I look back now

at the abuse I took from


I feel shame that I was so


but I must say

she did match me drink for


and I realized that her life

her feelings for things

had been ruined

along the way

and that I was no mare than a



she was ten years older

and mortally hurt by the past

and the present;

she treated me badly:

desertion, other


she brought me immense



s he lied, stole;

there was desertion,

other men,

yet we had our moments; and

our little soap opera ended

with her in a coma

in the hospital,

and I sat at her bed

for hours

talking to her,

and then she opened her eyes

and saw me:

“I knew it would be you,”

she said.

then hse closed her


the next day she was


I drank alone

for two years

after that.
>some of his poems are good, i must admit.
Eh, most of them are barely passable. They're Rupi Kaur poems for alcoholics.
No. Bukowski is a healing force. so many times you say, how has he not suicided? He just kept going and still wrote poems, in a twisted way, a very strong and inspirational guy
you sound like a pseud redditor
he was a good writer though
>No. Bukowski is a healing force.
Yes, and women can't understand it. I guess because they don't poop.

Scatological humor is probably the world's oldest strain of comedy. It deserves a sacred place in any summary of the human condition, and only the noblest souls a really capable of grappling with the intricacies of the art-form

Aristophanes, for example, in his Assemblywomen does a sublime routine about Praxagora's constipated husband, stumbling around at night—his boots and clothes having been stolen by Praxagora who's made off to the Assembly—trying to find a place to take a shit. Hunched over, after having finally evacuated the blockage on his neighbor's doorstep, he has nothing but his wife's shawl to wipe with. Praxagora returns from the assembly to find her shawl streaked with yellow. THIS is superb comedy.
I agree scat humour is terrible but you can't hold it against the perpetrators, Mozart for instance
no, i think it's unironically great.

There's a book about the commedia dell'arte written by the very learned Ducharte, wherein he notes in France the only people who held moral objections to it's performance tended to be the middle classes; the vulgar sensibilities of the lower classes and the upper classes wrapped around and met each other. In other words, the midwit meme is very real, and only midwits can't appreciate this fundamentally human comedy.

pic related is the administration of an enema
>t. pseud
Literary troll.

Don't try, just flow, so liquid shit comes out of you.

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