You know it's kind of funny. I hated Bukowski when I first read him. My first thought was to how ugly his poems were - how brutally real and honest. He wrote of rape and smashing spiders into oblivion and of drinking too much and hating poets. I recall making a comment somewhere, possibly here, that you'd think, considering his childhood, his physical scars and afflictions - that he'd have written about beautiful things and escaped into his self-made fantasy.
What a complete crock that was. That, dear readers, is what I do. I write pretty words and allow myself to either sink into them, or to lose myself in beating the hell out of them. But then I am no Bukowski, and would simply never get away with writing poetry about raping women or drinking till I puked all over myself, now would I?
But on the other hand, I wonder what a hypocrit I am after the last post I made about making excuses for reality. I don't deal with it, I don't excuse it, I just paint it pretty.