it gets worse.
The Last Day of Harry’s Life
Harry took a seat at the bar. It was that magic window after lunch and before happy hour, when working people worked and the silence of sunlight was left to be savored by true drunks. Dust danced in a suspended beam. A couple of deadbeats sat with endless dim suspended in their eyes. The once…
My own Bukowski
There’s a truth about this sort of writing. It is destined for the bargain bin of Amazon self-publishing. Back before we all got injected with 200 ccs of pop psychology, we didn’t know that folks like Bukowski were outliers. Back then, we called ‘em lucky bastards. I guess it’s all a bit same-same but different.…
Those were the good ol’ days
More. More. More. At any cost. Any cost. Red lining in the red, bloodshot eyes, endorphin highs, cocaine lights and loveless last rites.
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Drowning Tones & Death Notes 