A short story I wrote and originally published The Round Up Zine. (CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO READ THE FULL STORY)
I don’t know if he was really as mean as he made himself out to be. Certainly, his scared up face and knuckles and the scared up stanzas he dropped onto his notebook pages like spurting blood indicated that he’d been through it more than once. One time not long after I’d met him and paid the ten bucks for an hour’s worth off abusive critiquing he’d looked me in the eyes and said,
“I don’t really write poetry. I just lance the blisters on my heart and shape the puss into words. You on the other hand clearly spend your time masturbating with a pen in the library and then bring this shit to me and call it poetry.”
https://medium.com/the-junction/bukowskis-bastard-6f94a22c389d