all these years later and i can't help but sing along with every song on this album.

She's better than Poppy, and that's saying something big


What's with these homies who be dissin' my boy?
Do they know I'm aggravated with the negativity and the noise?
They tell me "Find a wealthy man"
But they don't seem too happy
I was afraid to put myself on the line for a boy
Until he put me in my place and showed me how to enjoy, myself
I think I need your help
I think she's coming back
You're the only one
Who's making me come
To my sinful senses
I'll never love
Anyone the same
I'll never feel ashamed
Of using you for pleasure
Am I naive to think that he could be the love of my life?
There is a voice inside my head that's tellin' me that it's right
I never thought I'd tell him
how scared I am of losing him...
You're the only one
Who's making me come
To my sinful senses
I'll never love
Anyone the same
I'll never feel ashamed
Of using you for pleasure
Someday we'll both be older
I wonder if we'll be together looking back on the past
But I don't care if I don't live to see another day, oh.
I love you in the worst way
I love you and I hate you and I'm losing my mind
And you tell me all the time that this will pass and that I'm gonna be fine
We're such a mess together
You make me lose my temper
You're the only one
Who's making me come
To my sinful senses
I'll never love
Anyone the same
I'll never feel ashamed
Of using you for pleasure
You're the only one
Who's making me come
To my sinful senses
I'll never love
Anyone the same
I'll never feel ashamed
Of using you for pleasure
Of using you for pleasure
Of using you for pleasure

“An Al­most Made Up Po­em”- By Charles Bukowski


I see you drink­ing at a foun­tain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the foun­tain is in France
where you wrote me that last let­ter and
I an­swered and nev­er heard from you again.
you used to write in­sane po­ems about
AN­GELS AND GOD, all in up­per case, and you
knew fa­mous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, en­ter their lives, I’ not jeal­ous
be­cause we’ nev­er met. we got close once in
New Or­leans, one half block, but nev­er met, nev­er
touched. so you went with the fa­mous and wrote
about the fa­mous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the fa­mous are wor­ried about
their fame –– not the beau­ti­ful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awak­ens
in the morn­ing to write up­per case po­ems about
AN­GELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but lis­ten­ing to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the up­per case. you were one of the
best fe­male po­ets and I told the pub­lish­ers,
ed­i­tors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
mag­ic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a wom­an he nev­er touch­es, on­ly
writes to, keeps lit­tle pho­to­graphs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cig­a­rette and lis­tened to you piss in the bath­room,
but that didn’ hap­pen. your let­ters got sad­der.
your lovers be­trayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers be­tray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a cry­ing bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a riv­er and you sat on the cry­ing
bench ev­ery night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and for­got­ten you. I wrote back but nev­er
heard again. a friend wrote me of your sui­cide
3 or 4 months af­ter it hap­pened. if I had met you
I would prob­a­bly have been un­fair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Charles Bukows­ki

You are so loved, sweet girl. No matter what.




Some clothed flowers....




And I undressed them SO carefully, too....