Ex-lawyer turned relationship coach

Coughing Up Artballs

The American poet Charles Bukowski is writing for me today.

He doesn’t know it, because he died when I was just learning about colours and shapes.

But because Bukowski was an avid supporter of small presses, I’d like to think he wouldn’t mind.

As Charles sat down to record an audio book of his Run With The Hunted, he veered off course and spoke about himself.

Here’s a slightly spruced up transcription:

“I was always lucky in landing jobs.

There’d be ten guys sitting in the room. And for some damn reason, they’d pick me.

I finally figured out the reason. They saw I was dumb. Too dumb to steal.

I just don’t love my stuff that much.

You know what I’m interested in?

What I’m gonna type tomorrow night.

That’s all that interests me. The next poem. The next fucking line.

What’s past is past. I don’t want to linger over it and jolly it up.

It’s gone. It’s done.

If you can’t write the next line, you’re dead.

The past doesn’t matter.

If I don’t get the lines in, I don’t act right. I feel sick.

It’s a release.

And it’s lucky I get paid for it.

I’d do it for nothing.

In fact, I’d pay to do it.”

P.S. Visit Blank on Blank for more Bukowski.

By Jeroen Elsing
Ex-lawyer turned relationship coach