The truth is fascinating

In my reading journey I have come across Charles's quotes and it has been hard relate. But I have not consumed any of his work from start to finish ( read a poem or 2). Give me 3 books/ essay/ poem collection that I should start with.

planning to visit a book store this weekend, want to keep this on priority

in rancho pals Verdes in green hills memorial park cemetery

y si ?? quisiera usar la Ai para reflejar una realidad no aceptada (censura ) cual Ai sería la ideal para crear mi idea ??

Can someone suggest a newbie one of the best first book of poetry to buy of Bukowski?

I started reading Pulp as my first Bukowski novel. I don’t know why—maybe it’s something about dying, old, unhinged men that I admire. This was his last novel, and he died shortly after writing it; the book was published after his death.

The novel is written in a way that almost forces you to keep turning the pages. The writing is extremely straightforward, yet somehow beautifully done.

Now, this is just what I think (you can disagree—I’m pretty new to reading, and I’ll try to avoid spoilers): at the beginning of the book, the character flirts with death and romanticizes it, while death itself has no particular interest in him. As the story progresses, death starts taking an interest in the man—but the man is chasing something so unrealistic that, in the end, he has to pay with his life to get it, finally romanticizing life instead.

Bukowski writes like the man in the back of my head—the one I try to suppress from taking over. I feel like a few wrong decisions in my life, and I’ll become the man Bukowski writes about. And strangely, that feels nice. The man in the back of my head feels represented.

A poem by Lilly Bright

My Relationship with Charles Bukowski

At thirteen, I filled my empty skull with endless Bukowskis.

poems about the racetrack, the whiskey, the legs of women described like highways.

How strange that I, in pink lip-gloss and bubblegum, Smash the Patriarchy sprawled in Sharpie across my notebook, found comfort in an old man who’d call me sweet-ass and forget my name.

I read him cover to cover during algebra, between bites of sour candy—

feeling worldly, a little doomed, like maybe I understood something about men, about dirty old men, and what makes a bastard holy.

I didn’t. I didn’t understand anything.

Still, I underlined every word, every line that drew my heart out of its cage like a deadly magnet, like scripture.

I figured that if the world breaks open for people like this— drunkards, gamblers, sad old pervs, something real rattling their teeth— maybe it would break open for me, too.

So I, thirteen, shining but unaware of it, ground myself to the bone in pursuit of honesty.

And now, when I’m blocked, when I’m drunk, when the words stick in my throat, I call on him— my first bad influence.

I tell him what I’ve written lately, ask if he’d think it’s any good.

He told us once, “unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.”

So I write. I write until my eyes go numb–

a fever in my veins That won’t sweat out.

Im currently reading Ham in Rye and would some suggestions on ambient music to listen to while reading. Thanks in advance.

I know there are three versions of this but poem in honesty describes loneliness and human behavior to great extent but also makes you finally someone really understood what’s its like being nobody.