Some lose all mind and become soul, insane. Some lose all soul and become mind, intellectual. Some lose both and become accepted.

The flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking, crawling in and out of beds. Flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.

My dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.

She's mad, but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire.

Sometimes when everything seems at it worst, when all conspires and gnaws and the hours, days, weeks, years seams wasted stretched there upon my bed in the dark looking upward at the ceiling I get what many will consider an obnoxious thought: it's still nice to be Bukowski.

I found the best thing I could do was just type away at my own work and let the dying die as they always have.

I want quiet thunder.

I look at her and light goes all through me.

Let it die. Let there be a new beginning. It’s awful. Goodnight.

Understand me. I'm not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul.

I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

And then there are some who believe that old relationships can be revived and made new again. But please if you feel that way don't phone don't write don't arrive.

When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun, that was style.

If I never see you again I will always carry you inside outside.

Don't undress my love you might find a mannequin. Don't undress the mannequin you might find love.