Henry Lucowski fucked, jilted by most and himself too. He was junk, the lot of it was. The Henry thing reeking, feasted on by maggots and grub-worms, bare-bone and all.
In Wa Wa Coffee Shop, not liking the past, Henry the steam roller, rolling through life, melting it down, dumping hot ash on the junk, it was the past and he hated it.
Henry’s mind like a cess pool, taking all the shit in the world in and pushing it out further down the stream, scared to death of it.
This a mental process he had learned while serving time in San Quentin, a coping mechanism that keep him from going over the edge.
Henry hated himself without reservation, consequently he stopped looking inside and in the mirror. He could see beauty in others and things, but not in himself.
( Bukowski “ Born into This,” on You Tube spurring Henry on )
So Henry kept at it, the writing, for absolutely nothing. G-d knows why?
The feeling of emptiness never left him these days. He felt his spine was tapped from the vertebrae nearest his brain, down.
Henry was stuck here.