Don’t Try



Hank Chinaski.

I’m one of those incredibly rare bitches that loves Bukowski. I say rare, not because I’m fucking special, but because it is utter blasphemy to love someone like Bukowski in 2018.

I’m sure my love for Bukowski is evident by the name of this blog, but I digress…

He’s a disgusting, “misogynist”, asshole, alcoholic, bad poet, cowardly, piece of shit, yah?

Of course he is, but guess what?




Meaning, he’s just a reminder of the parts of ourselves that are usually suppressed, ignored, or just plain embarrassing.

I know, that’s a big assumption on my part, I do that sometimes, assume. I assume the worst and hope for the best. I think my mother taught me that.

He was the everyday loser. The ignored, the bullied, the victim. I mean, if that doesn’t sound like every single one of us, then fuck, I have this existence thing all wrong.

I’m not here to defend him, nor am I here to convince you, yes you reading this, that you should embrace him or even like him or his writing.

I am however, showing you a different perspective, a flip. Perhaps by looking at him with sympathetic eyes, we can begin to see ourselves that way too.

Forget the prejudgements and the shit we’re fed by people who have hardly worked on themselves. That’s the most hilarious aspect regarding Bukowski, the people that hate him, hate themselves.

Whatever the question, the answer is always love.


Aren’t I a sensitive little bitch?

That all said, my husband and I visited his grave today.

We drank and smoked and enjoyed the cool breeze alongside the warm sun on our faces. We enjoyed the quiet, since we rarely hear it where we live.

Day drinking got the best of us and we passed out once we got home.

Thank you Buk.

Thank you for being so vulnerable with your ugly.




Aside: Some stupid elitist asshole (the kind I’m sure Bukowski would want to punch in the fucking throat) made some ridiculous comment about our “selfie” at the “grave” on one of those pointless social media outlets we all know and love. Saying “I’m sure he appreciates having a selfie taken at his grave.

He obviously hasn’t read anything by Bukowski, obviously. I love when ignorant fucks chime in on something like a picture of two fans at a graveside and try to sound like they know what they’re talking about.









“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.” -Charles Bukowski


  1. Love this. I love Bukowski read him in my twenties now forty nine. Still regularly think of this line, misquoted. The twig outside the window that ensures they won’t get everything ever. Or something. He also reminds me to prioritise writing no matter what else you are doing. Thanks, love the photos.


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