The whore who took my poems,some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem, stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but Jesus, twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have my paintings too, my best ones; its stifling: are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them? why didn't you take my money? they usually do from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner. Next time take my left arm or a fifty but, not my poems: I'm not Shakespeare but, sometime simply there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise; there always will be money and whores and drunkards down to the last bomb, but as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets But, not so very much poetry.
Classical, Randy Newman
Barfly, Factotum, Bukowski: Born into This
I don't watch Television. My time is consumed by Writing, Whiskey, Betting on the Ponies, Vodka, Women, Drifting from town to town, Tobacco, Beer, Dead-End Shit Jobs, Scotch, Cheap Wine and Payday Candy Bars.
Post Office, Factotum, Women, Ham on Rye, Hollywood, Pulp...Just to name a few.
Anton Chekhov, Franz Kafka, Knut Hamsun, Ernest Hemingway, John Fante, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, D.H. Lawrence