A person very dear to me once mentioned in passing that I would probably like Bukowski. (He's a poet) A quick search and a cursory read of about two poems piqued my interest, but due to short attention and the rush of life his poetry was pushed to the back of my mind.
That was until a random encounter in the Deansgate Waterstones. His worn inquisitive monochrome face stared at me from the cover of his book - "The Pleasure of the Damned". I instantly recognised the name, and memories flooded back to me of that dear person. So after around 20 minutes flicking through this book and debating whether I actually had the funds, I just had to buy it.
His poetry reminds me of people I don't want to meet, but may end up becoming. Rough. Poor. Desperate. Old. There are only faint glimmers of happiness in five hundred pages of beautifully tainted words.
My friend was right.
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