warm beer, cold women.
Llego sin un centavo, sin nada que perder, una mujer sin nombre con todo por hacer Vivimos cada dia sin preguntar porque jugamos a ese juego que nunca olvidare Se fue, se fue el sueño aquel no se adonde lo deje Se fue,se fue y yo me quede pensando en lo que ayer se fue murio... se fue... Y vuelve ese verano, tan claro como ayer pero es solo un reflejo de lo que pudo ser En todo lo que veo su imagen siempre esta y no puedo evitarlo no dejo de pensar Se fue, se fue como un vendaval Y aun escucho su cancion Se fue, se fue el sueño aquel ya no volvera se fue, murio... se fue... Se fue, se fue no hay porque llorar el tiempo nos igualara Se fue, se fue dura es la verdad y no quiero creer que ya se fuee se fue... murio... se fue.... murio...
Not to touch the earth
Not to see the sun
Nothing left to do, but
Run, run, run
Let's run
Let's run
House upon the hill
Moon is lying still
Shadows of the trees
Witnessing the wild breeze
C'mon baby run with me
Let's run
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let's run
The mansion is warm, at the top of the hill
Rich are the rooms and the comforts there
Red are the arms of luxuriant chairs
And you won't know a thing till you get inside
Dead president's corpse in the driver's car
The engine runs on glue and tar
Come on along, not goin' very far
To the East to meet the Czar
Run with me
Run with me
Run with me
Let's run
Whoa!
Some outlaws lived by the side of a lake
The minister's daughter's in love with the snake
Who lives in a well by the side of the road
Wake up, girl, we're almost home
Ya, c'mon!
We should see the gates by mornin'
We should be inside the evenin'
Sun, sun, sun
Burn, burn, burn
Soon, soon, soon
Moon, moon, moon
I will get you
Soon!
Soon!
Soon!
I am the Lizard King
I can do anything
Black Polished Chrome
The music was new
black polished chrome
And came over the summer
like liquid night.
The DJ's took pills to stay awake
and play for seven days
They went to the studio
And someone knew him
Someone knew the TV showman
He came to our homeroom party
and played records
And when he left in the hot noon sun
and walked to his car
We saw the chooks had written
F-U-C-K on his windshield
He wiped it off with a rag
and smiling coolly drove away
He's rich. Got a big car.
My gang will get you
Scenes of rape in the arroyo
Seduction in cars, abandoned buildings
Fights at the food stand
The dust
the shoes
Open shirts and raised collars
Bright sculptured hair.
Hey man, you want girls, pills, grass? C'mon...
I show you good time.
This place has everything. C'mon...
I show you.
yo volaba chichigua a esa edad con supervision de mi papa, y era lo maximo.
Quiero cojer carretera. Tipo road trip. 
hoy me acuerdo de:
sing along...
But Not For me, Performed by Chet Baker.
They're writing songs of love, but not for me.
A lucky star's above, but not for me.
With love to lead the way
I've found more clouds of grey
than any Russain play could guarantee.
I was a fool to fall and get that way;
Heigh-ho! Alas! And also, lack-a-day!
Although I can't dismiss the memory of her kiss,
I guess she's not for me.
I was a fool to fall and get that way;
Heigh-ho! Alas! And also, lack-a-day!
Although I can't dismiss the memory of her kiss,
I guess she's not for me.
“Bukowski cried when JudyGarland sang at the N.Y. Philharmonic, Bukowski cried when Shirley Temple sang"I Got Animal Crackers in my Soup"; Bukowski cried in cheap flophouses, Bukowski can't dress, Bukowski can't talk, Bukowski is scared of women, Bukowski had a bad stomach, Bukowski is full of fears,and hates dictionaries, nuns, pennies, busses, churches, park benches, spiders, flies, fleas, freaks; Bukowski didn't go to war.Bukowski is old, Bukowski hasn't flown a kite for 45 years; if Bukowski were an ape, they'd run him out of the tribe...”
“ And so, we become quiet. it is another strange evening. The people come to me, they talk, they fill me: the future rabbis, the revolutionaries with their rifles, the FBI, the whores, the poetesses, the young poets from Cal State, a professor from Loyola going to Michigan, a professor from the University of Cal at Berkeley, another who lives in riverside, 3 or 4 boys on the road, plain bums with Bukowski books stashed in their brains...for a while I thought that this gang would intrude upon and murder my precious moments, but I’ve been lucky, lucky for each man and each woman has brought me something and left me something, and I no longer must feel like Jeffers behind a stone wall, and I’ve been lucky in another way for what fame I have is largely hidden and quiet and I’ll hardly be a Henry Miller with people camping in my front lawn, the gods have been very good to me, they’ve kept me alive and even, still kicking, taking notes, observing, feeling the goodness of good people, feeling the miracle run up my arm like a crazy mouse. Such a life, given to me at the age of 48, even though tomorrow does not know is the sweetest of the sweet dreams.”
Charles Bukowski -Book: Tales of ordinary madness-
Listen up
Pongan en plazos nuestras velas, vuestras venas, los limites montados, nuestras marcas tentadas por el chic, por los glams de una esperanza que no nos quiere, que siempre resultamos aburridos de la nada universal.
Extintores bajo presión, alineados todos los trastes para el renombre de nuestros vómitos; que abusamos del alcohol anoche, y no tuvimos humo nuevamente.
Corrijan las planas noches y demostremos que el caos ayuda en frascos, en sometidas esquirlas de nuestras ideas burladas por la precisión de vuestros caracteres editados en volteretas inofensivas a sus vistas preliminares, compuestas, rotundas, sorpresivas al Mio Cid.
Aquí se juega con estos marchitos, con estos espacios, ya bien limpios, ya no esquematizados en sistemas de dicción propensa. Venga aquí mi fuerte, mis bienes necesitados.
Todo en fiasco, todos esperando mis consuelos, mis grandes libertades, mis mentores de vuelo, de lectura improvisada en bibliotecas sumisas, nunca vistas, siempre promocionadas en nuestra mente, en nuestros modus de largas palabras al roce de lo difícil.
Y siempre en las esquinas templadas, está el buen Whisky, la falta de nuestro hielo de estrellato, nuestros narcos, precipitados al calor de asesinatos de T.V., de redondas vigilas cuando queda muy poco, cuando rotamos exagerados los nombres de los grandes, de nuestros impuestos corajes.
A las 10:10 fue anoche en los sueños, vitrificando
