#1977 #AmericanWriters #LoveIsADogFromHell #ThePleasuresOfTheDamned
the German hotel was very strange… double doors to the rooms, very th… looked the park and the vasser ter… it was usually too late for breakf… would be everywhere changing sheet…
Phillipe ’s is an old time cafe off Alameda street just a little north and east of the main post office. Phillipe’s opens at 5 a.m.
That evening after dinner Joanna produced some mescaline. “You ever tried this stuff?” Joanna had some paints and brushes and paper spread on the table. Then I remembered she was an art...
the acute and terrible air hangs w… as summer birds mingle in the bran… and warble and mystify the clamor of the mind… an old parrot
cigarettes wetted with beer from the night before you light one gag open the door for air
here things are tough but they’re mostly always tough. basically I’m just trying to get a… with the female. when you first meet them their eyes
Lila Jane was a girl my age who lived next door. I still wasn’t allowed to play with the children in the neighborhood, but sitting in the bedroom often got dull. I would go out and walk...
women don’t know how to love, she told me. you know how to love but women just want to leech.
I sit here on the 2nd floor hunched over in yellow pajamas still pretending to be a writer.
now more and more all these people running around wearing the American Flag Shirt and it was more or less once assum… think but I’m not sure)
I feel gypped by dunces as if reality were the property of little men with luck and a headstart, and I sit in the cold
Cecelia sat and watched us drink. I could see that I repulsed her. I ate meat. I had no god. I liked to fuck. Nature didn’t interest me. I never voted. I liked wars. Outer space bored m...
On Thursday night Bobby phoned again. “Hey, man, what are you doing?” “Oh, come on, man, I’ll just stay for a few beers. . . .” “You treat him mean. He gets lonely when his wife is at w...
Bach, I said, he had 20 children. he played the horses during the da… he f—ed at night and drank in the mornings. he wrote music in between.
You had to fill out more papers to get out than to get in. The first page they gave you was a personalized mimeo affair from the postmaster of the city. It began: “I am sorry you are te...