South of No North

by Charles Bukowski

didn’t want their itchy blankets or their itchy uniforms or their itchy humanity.

I have always admired the villain, the outlaw, the son of a bitch. I don’t like the clean-shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. I like desperate men, men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways. They interest me.

It isn’t worth it. The kids sit about sipping at their coffees and waiting for it to happen. It isn’t going to happen.

I have money, we have money, we have more money than you have, we are better than you are, nothing worries us; everything is shit but we are not shit and we know everything, look at us.

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With their pink shirts and green shirts and blue shirts, and square white rotting bodies, and striped shorts, eyeless eyes and mouthless mouths, they walked along, very colorful, as if color might wake up death and turn it into life.

color & desperation. could be talking about social media posts.

San Pedro slowly worked toward us, civilization, civilization, smog and murder, so much nicer so much nicer, the madmen and the drunks are the last saints left on earth.

San Pedro