Loved it! Masterpiece. ( )

"A book of poetry" (instead of short stories) ( )

70s shock and exploitation on the surface. A little deeper down brutal honesty, emptiness, and openness. Poems like "The Bee" expose much more of the poet's soul than may have been intended. ( )

It's like a god throwing the feeble metaphors at you like the rain. It cannot rain stones, mind you; people are still made of flesh! ( )

Oh, [a:Charles Bukowski|13275|Charles Bukowski|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/authors/1387554724p2/13275.jpg].

Where do I begin?

I adore his poetry, really. It speaks to me in the bitter, cynical, drunken tones of a misogynistic misanthropist who is just scribbling on paper in hopes of another paycheck coming in. It speaks to me in the harsh growl of someone cursing down the phone at his admirers, then sleeping with their wives, sisters, daughters, mothers, grandmothers - any woman with a pulse before shoving them out the door with no apology. It speaks to me in the way that [a:Hunter S. Thompson|5237|Hunter S. Thompson|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/authors/1206560814p2/5237.jpg] does, but without the strange bit of heart buried deep within Gonzo's rotten frame.

It speaks to me, and speaks to me frankly. I know I'll give it more stars at some point or another. I know I'll read through everything the bastard wrote at some point or another. I can't keep away, even though it's the same as lapping up the putrid filth of existence and expecting not to get sick. It draws you in, it spits you out. Then it urinates all over you.

Why do I do this to myself? ( )