Just finished this. I know - it’s a stupid romp and Bukowski is more a poet and certain people are into him and all that, but there’s something about it I like. Losers are people too with stories, and those don’t always fit in with what we expect, but they still have value and should be told!
And the end. The last few lines. The words are so sudden.
I personally prefer Bukowski’s prose over poetry. Something about it feels very raw and real, like dumbed down Hemingway, which I appreciate.
It’s actually weird, I used to love him in my early twenties, grew out of it and became resentful in late twenties / early thirties, but found new appreciation for him now, mid thirties. With how fucked the world is, everyone is a fucking looser.