I could understand the moon leaning across a bar on skid rowand asking for a drink, but I couldn't understand anything about myself, I was murdered, I was shit, I was a tentful of dogs, I was poppies mowed down by machine-gun fire. I was a hotshot wasp in a web. I was less and less and still reaching forsomething, and I thought of her corny remarka night or so ago: You have wounded eyes.
Charles BukowskiAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Writer, Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: August 16, 1920
- Died: March 9, 1994