I read Bukowski’s “Love is a dog From Hell” just the other week.
Re-read it, I should say.
It didn’t make as much sense now as it did when I was 20.
For back then it meant the world.
Now it is just a small handful of really great poems.
And anger, and fear and frustration masquerading as war-stories, hero-stories sometimes.
Hero-stories by a giant loser.
A los…
