It’s too late for writing poetry and the time for prose had passed by with the closing of your eye lashes and the yawning of your mouth. You sit facing the screen wanting to go to bed but hear words hold you in place. You wonder why you do the things you do. The clandestine things of love and lust , of procrastination and laziness. But yet all around the birds sing a merry tune to the silence of my discontent. The priest has lost its grip . The ages of youth have passed me by laughing in contempt at my folly and I smile for all beyond that wall is full of wonder and joy
I finished Factotum by Charles Bukowski last night. One of the best books I have ever read, so different from anything else I have read. I looked up and there was Colm Tobin’s Brooklyn looking back at me from the shelf calling me to read it. Ah well I wlaways do what i am told so its the next one. I still reading Jo Nesbo’s new book “Son ” at same time its typical detective story nice for some easy reading and bit of fun. I like Jo Nesbos stuff. I find it a lot bit than most detective ones which can be a bit predictable at times .
Charles Bukowski now that’s a man who could write. No political correctness or bullshit just hard living drinking whiskey , working his way through women and jobs. I reading factotum at the moment. I want to write
like him, maybe a novel that gets banned but then becomes a cult classic. Something Irvine Walsh would be proud of but set in the land of Ireland among the squalor and the pain.