Nothing can save you except writing. It keeps the walls from failing.
Writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.
The more crap you believe, the better off you are.
I was glad I wasn’t in love, that I wasn’t happy with the world. I like being at odds with everything. People in love often become edgy, dangerous. They lose their sense of perspective. They lose their sense of humor. They become nervous, psychotic bores. They even become killers.
Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them.
The area dividing the brain and the soul Is affected in many ways by experience – Some lose all mind and become soul: insane. Some lose all soul and become mind: intellectual. Some lose both and become: accepted.
I never felt right being alone; sometimes it felt good but it never felt right.
Forgive me, I guess I am off in the head, but I mean, except for a quickie piece of ass it wouldn’t matter to me if all the people in the world died. Yes, I know it’s not nice. But I’d be as contended as a snail; it was, after all, the people who had made me unhappy.
I have a face like a washrag. I sing love songs and carry steel. I would rather die than cry. I can’t stand hounds can’t live without them. I hang my head against the white refrigerator and want to scream like the last weeping of life forever but I am bigger than the mountains.
I knew I was strong, and maybe like they said, “crazy.” But I had this feeling inside of me that something real was there.
Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.
I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. It didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.
Gradually I came to realize that my understanding of women goes only as far as the pleasure is concerned.
There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. People so tired, mutilated either by love or no love.
I think that everything should be made available to everybody, and I mean LSD, cocaine, codeine, grass, opium, the works. Nothing on earth available to any man should be confiscated and made unlawful by other men in more seemingly powerful and advantageous positions.
I wish I were driving a blue 1952 Buick or a dark blue 1942 Buick or a blue 1932 Buick over a cliff of hell and into the sea.
YOU DULL ME!
I am a poem. There is no way out.
A woman has to have something on or there’s nothing to take off.
I will put on my shoes and shirt and get out of here – it’ll be better for all of us.