#the crunch charles bukowski

[dandifiedstupefied]

m*a*s*h (1972-1983) // excerpts from 'the crunch' by charles bukowski (1977)

screencaps credit to @not-trustworthy

[metamorphesque]

there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movements of the hands of a clock

Charles Bukowski. The Crunch

[daria-s]

The Crunch

too much too little too fat too thin or nobody. laughter or tears haters lovers strangers with faces like the backs of thumb tacks armies running through streets of blood waving winebottles bayoneting and fucking virgins. or an old guy in a cheap room with a photograph of M. Monroe. there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock. people so tired mutilated either by love or no love. people just are not good to each other one on one. the rich are not good to the rich the poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners. it hasn't told us about the gutters or the suicides. or the terror of one person aching in one place alone untouched unspoken to watering a plant. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. people are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be. I don't ask them to be. but sometimes I think about it. the beads will swing the clouds will cloud and the killer will behead the child like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone. too much too little too fat too thin or nobody more haters than lovers. people are not good to each other. perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad. meanwhile I look at young girls stems flowers of chance. there must be a way. surely there must be a way we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say "no."

[fishingforwords]

it's not the same as being alone.

augusten burroughs || sylvia plath || haruki murakami, sputnik sweetheart || charles bukowski, the crunch || edward hopper, nighthawks || f. scott fitzgerald, the great gatsby || robert frost, desert places || d.h. lawrence || john steinbeck, east of eden || edward hopper, nighthawks (zoomed in)

[distance-does-not-matter]

the regrowth of hope is more painful than the lack. or, lord vasili von holtz

walking the land by anne magill / stray italian greyhound by vienna teng / get used to it by ricky montgomery / the crunch by charles bukowski / how to be a dog by andrew kane / u deserve by wasia project / the fear of losing this by florist / menhir by anne magill / hope and i by susan coolidge / slade house by david mitchell / full moon by avi kaplan / making amends, panel 2, by holly warburton / stray italian greyhound by vienna teng / not your year by the weepies / making amends, panel 1, by holly warburton / stray italian greyhound by the weepies / tin bucket by jenny george

[iloveyoumorethanyoulleverkno]

The Crunch by Charles Bukowski

[april-is]

April 21, 2024: April Morning, Jonathan Wells

April Morning Jonathan Wells You are living the life you wanted as if you'd known what that was but of course you didn't so you'd groped toward it feeling for what you couldn't imagine, what your hands couldn't tell you, for what that shape could be.

This Sunday the rain turns cold again and steady but the window is slightly open and there is the vaguest sense of bird song somewhere in the gaps between the buildings because it's spring the calendar says and the room where you are reading is empty yet full of what loves you and this is the day that you were born.

--

Today in:

2023: What I Did Wrong, Marie Howe 2022: This Morning, Jay Wright 2021: Kiss of the Sun, Mary Ruefle 2020: Teaching English from an Old Composition Book, Gary Soto 2019: Easter, Jill Alexander Essbaum 2018: Annunciation, Marie Howe 2017: The Promise, Marie Howe 2016: In the Woods, Kathryn Simmonds 2015: Heat, Jane Hirshfield 2014: What Remains, Ellery Akers 2013: 30th Birthday, Alice Notley 2012: Untitled [I closed the book and changed my life], Bruce Smith 2011: The Forties, Franz Wright 2010: Prayer of the Backhanded, Jericho Brown 2009: A Primer, Bob Hicok 2008: Because You Asked about the Line between Prose and Poetry, Howard Nemerov 2007: Open Letter to the Muse, Kristy Bowen 2006: A Sad Child, Margaret Atwood 2005: The Crunch, Charles Bukowski

[89words]

There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock.

Charles Bukowski - 'The Crunch'

[89rooms]

There is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock.

Charles Bukowski - 'The Crunch'

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

But It Beats the Darkness - the Malevolent Big Bang 2024, ch 4: TRADE

"It may not be much light but it beats the darkness" ~ Charles Bukowski, The Laughing Heart

AO3

NOTE BEFORE READING

This is part four of a Darkthur fic. There is violence and bodily harm.

This fic was written in tandem with Kraiva's IT MAY NOT BE MUCH LIGHT, and is intended to be read together, though both are standalone. For the fullest experience, read the corresponding chapter from each fic. We'll be linking the connected chapters in the end notes of each.

The incredible art in chapters two and eleven are by @wurmeon. The breathtaking 3D models in chapter six are from @iconiccookie.

------------

It’s not much of a town. There’s a cluster of small buildings to the south of us, dark with rotted wood.

“How many buildings are there?” said Arthur, gripping the wheel like a weapon.

Maybe fifteen. North of those ramshackle houses is what looks like that inn we hoped for. Snow piles on either side of it, but it has a sign. I think it says, ‘Red Right Hand.’

Arthur swallowed. “Do you see power lines?”

Power lines? What in hell were power… oh. Oh. Yes… I do.

“You don’t sound sure.”

I didn’t… know what power lines were, at first, said John, hesitant. Then the knowledge just… showed up.

Arthur looked stunned. John felt stunned, so that was fitting. “Is there a place to park?” he said finally.

Not really. I don’t think this road is even designed for vehicles.

“Shit,” Arthur muttered. “Maybe we should keep going.”

It was tempting. John studied Arthur in the mirror; no, the man was practically gray. If Arthur dropped dead… John didn’t know what would happen, and couldn’t risk the Dark World. No. Whatever it is, we can handle it long enough to get some food and sleep.

“All right,” said Arthur, who had to be exhausted to be this amenable. “Where do we leave the truck?”

Go slow. I’ll steer us. Arthur obeyed, and the stolen vehicle crept up the road, gravel crunching and popping under the tires Ready… stop. This looks like it’ll be all right. The trees and wind kept this section relatively clear of snow, so we won’t be stuck.

“Thanks.” Arthur turned the truck off. Then he slumped forward, landing hard on the steering wheel, limp.

John gasped. Arthur!

No response.

No, no, no— Arthur! Arthur!  

The human wasn’t dead; he breathed raggedly, and his hand twitched. 

John manifested his arm again and smacked Arthur’s head. Arthur!

Arthur grunted. “Fuck…”

Oh, fuck. Fuck. You just… you…

“I passed out,” said Arthur quietly. “You were right. We need to… just… tell me where to go.”

John felt ill. He’d almost lost him. Almost, right here, on the cusp of rest, lost him. That thought… the unnameable emotions that came with it…

He had to pull it together. The goal was gaining this stallion’s trust. The rest didn’t matter. It didn’t . I’ll take care of you. You can trust me, Arthur.

Arthur nodded.

Go ahead and get out. I’ll direct you up the street.

#

Someone had shoveled, though not well, and his human host was too tired to lift his feet as he walked. He staggered, tripped; stumbled, grunted, but he kept going. He didn’t call for help; he didn’t do anything John didn’t want him to do, and that was what mattered. 

John knew it was a risk, but he manifested his arm. He had to. They’d land on their face if he didn’t. (Keeping it looking human was just humiliating, but one did what one had to.)

Finally, they reached the door. Arthur struggled to pull it creakily open and step inside. 

All conversation in the place just… stopped.

It’s a large wooden room, said John, low. There are about thirty men in here, and they’re all staring at us.

Arthur swallowed. “Bar.”

Left.

Arthur did a nod at the room, a sort of inoffensive human greeting, and staggered toward it.

Salt and sawdust covers the floor, John continued. All these men have facial hair, and they… maybe I’m out of practice looking at human faces, but all of these seem weirdly… similar. And familiar. Why would they resemble Jack? What the hell was the, some secret Larson breeding ground? He dared not mention that lest he spook his host. He—

Arthur ran smack into the bar.

Shit! Sorry. The bartender’s looking at you. 

“Hello,” said Arthur, and though he looked like a scarecrow that had been hung in the wind, his voice came out smooth and charming, and John logged that ability in his imaginary tool chest. “The sign says this is an inn. Do you have any room?”

He’s just staring at you.  

“Yeah,” the weird guy finally said.

Arthur trembled. John kept them upright, trying hard to support them with his ugly human arm. “How…” said Arthur. “How much?”

“What are you doing here?” said the bartender instead.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Please. I need a bed.”

“Fine.” 

He’s drying a glass and putting it away.

That wasn’t an answer, but Arthur seemed incapable of processing that. “Do you sell food?”

“Got some old bread.” A pause. “Plenty to drink.”

“I’ll take both,” said Arthur, pulling the wallet out of his pocket.

Shit. His eyes widened at the billfold. Just hold it out and ask him how much.

“How much?” said Arthur again.

He’s walking away.

“Fuck it, I don’t care,” said Arthur, feeling around himself for a barstool. He sat.

John eyed the room in the grimy mirror behind the bar. They’re still watching us.

“Let them,” Arthur mumbled as the bartender came back.

“Bread,” said the man. “Drink.”

John stared. The bread looked… old. Hard as a rock. Dry. And the drink — The fuck is that, motor oil?

“Thank you,” said Arthur, reaching by sound, and pulling both in.

I wouldn’t drink that if—

Arthur was already chugging. Then Arthur was almost chucking. He coughed, gagged, choked into the sleeve of his stolen coat.

Fuck! John exclaimed.

“A dollar,” said the bartender.

Arthur gagged again. “A dollar? For this?”

John suddenly knew that was expensive. How did he know that? It wasn’t the first time in the last day he’d known things he could not know. Maybe Arthur’s knowledge was… sinking in, somehow. Maybe—

“You know what?” Arthur suddenly said in the tone John recognized as taunting your torturers for some weird Arthur reason . “You know what? Fine! A dollar, it is!” And he began trying to get the money out of the wallet himself.

Stop it! John grabbed at it, Arthur yanked it back, and they dropped it, and everything in it spilled—onto the bar, onto the floor, while the bartender stared at the plummeting bills like watching fireworks in reverse.

Arthur’s face heated. “Sorry.” He felt along the counter.

You idiot! John snapped, grabbing money by the handful and stuffing it into Arthur’s front overall pocket. Bend the fuck down so I can get what you dropped!

“That was both of us,” Arthur snapped, but bent.

“Are you blaming me for you throwing money all over?” said the bartender.

“No, of course not, sir, just talking to myself,” Arthur muttered as John jammed bills into his pocket.

Moron, John said, aware he was dropping the reins, but Arthur had been so good until now. This is a dollar. Try not to throw this one, will you?

And Arthur stood and—absolutely at John —tossed the dollar with more energy than necessary onto the bar, then grabbed the greasy, gray drink in the stein.

Wait! said John.

Arthur gulped it down like some eldritch thing, made an absolutely horrifying sound, and then found the bread by feel. He crunched into it, chewing. And chewing.

And chewing.

In the mirror, Arthur was going red. That’s what you get for swallowing like a glutton, John said.

“Fuck you,” Arthur whuffed through bread too dry to swallow.

“What?” said the bartender.

“Not you,” said Arthur. “The one who got me into this. Could I have some water?”

“Five cents extra.”

“For water?”

Everyone was watching again. John swallowed. Just pay it. It’s not our money, anyway.

Arthur muttered as he pulled out the tiny coin purse, swaying on his feet.

This wasn’t the weak-kneed failure from earlier. This was… Are you… fucking drunk?  

The bartender placed a glass of fleck-filed water and a tarnished metal key on the bar.

Arthur gave up chewing and spit out the wad of bread. It splatted into the sawdust floor, vanishing at once with the clumps held together by snow tracked inside.

Fucking hell. John grabbed the key. Arthur!

“Hnn.” Arthur turned and leaned on his elbow, blinking blindly at nothing.

Get up. Turn right. You’re going to bed.

“No,” Arthur murmured. He hiccuped wetly, found the water by feel, and then chugged that.

Fuck. This was John’s fault. He knew how stubborn this man was; he’d seen Arthur exhibit exactly this behavior for a week when poked. John felt like an idiot. Deeply, slowly, he sighed. I’m sorry I yelled at you.

Another hiccup.

We need to go to bed. The whole reason we’re here, remember? It was all the charm he’d ever had as King, and even stubborn, drunk Arthur seemed to respond.

“All right,” Arthur mumbled. It took him three tries to put the empty glass on the bar. He left the dry bread behind, and would have fallen face-first into the stairs had John not caught them on the doorframe.

#

Coaxing Arthur into the room that matched the number engraved into key took more patience than John knew he had. Almost there. A little further. On your right—fuck. Your other right, Arthur. Left is someone else’s room, for fuck’s sake! You’re going to get us shot.

Arthur tried the wrong doorknob for a moment more. “Paid a dollar, ” he said for the twelfth time, caught in some kind of mental loop. “Gonna get what I paid for.”

Yes, yes. Twice the patience he knew he had. Thrice. You got what you paid for, all right.

Arthur’s breath hitched.

Not this again. Arthur…

Arthur staggered into the room meant for them, at least remembering to close the door, and pulled clumsily at John Chambers’ clothes. “I never wanted to hurt anyone,” he said in a tiny voice, and gave up on undressing. He flopped down right onto the floor, a marionette with cut strings.

Great. What was this, now? You haven’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.

That laugh was about as insane as any John had ever heard, even when he was actively breaking someone’s mind. He froze.

“Everyone around me gets hurt,” Arthur said, a high and broken whimper, a sound that John vacillated between finding annoying and finding delicious. “Everyone. You will, too. I’m sorry. It’s too late. You’re fucked.”

Well, that was… unexpected. Arthur. You said you aren’t cursed, and if you aren’t cursed, then that’s ridiculous.

“My parents killed themselves,” Arthur said.

John was struck dumb.

“My wife died in childbirth,” said Arthur.

Your wife? This mess of a man had been married? And childbirth meant—

“My daughter…” said Arthur, and broke down completely, ugly sobbing, barely able to catch his breath.

Okay. Maybe he was cursed.

John had no mouth to hang open, but if he had, it would be gaping. That was a lot of death. A lot of it around one human. And mortal lives were so short, anyway, absolutely pointless in their brevity, but this…

No. He would handle this. No paltry, mortal, human nonsense could derail this train, even if it seemed he had fallen into the most broken human he’d ever encountered—and maybe that was why it worked, because this Arthur had so many holes in his psyche that he could fit John in. Arthur. John raised his ghostly hand and cupped Arthur’s face. Arthur.

“What?” Arthur whispered.

I grant absolution would work with a cultist, but Arthur was… not that. It wasn’t your fault was a nice idea, but that horse had long fled the barn. Arthur. I understand.

Arthur didn’t argue yet. His breath kept hitching, great gulping swallows of sorrow, but he didn’t shove that hand away.

It was dangerous, and risky, but John knew he had to put all his eggs in this basket. I’ve done things as King that I… that…

Arthur waited.

I’ve done terrible things. I didn’t know they were at the time, but… I suppose everyone learns as they go.

Arthur remained silent.

Was it working or not? I understand.

“No, you don’t,” Arthur said like a broken engine (so that was a no). “You’re not even human. I remember what you said when you first came to me. This pitiful life , this pointless mortal , the way you talked about other people…”

How dare he use John’s words against him! Arthur, I hadn’t—

“Shut up. I’m not that easy to manipulate,” said this drunken fool, and hiccupped.

John had a headache. Should be impossible, but there it was. Arthur. I’m trying, all right? Maybe I’m doing it imperfectly, maybe I don’t know how to do this yet, but I’m trying. You told me to lend you some grace the first night we were together because you wouldn’t fucking stop crying. Remember? So lend me some back. That’s all I’m asking.

And like he’d pressed a magic button, Arthur’s aggression deflated. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Yes. I appreciate that you’re trying.”

There was something big here—like what mattered to Arthur was that someone tried , not necessarily that they succeeded—but John was tired trying to understand mortal weirdness, and didn’t feel like talking about it anymore. Thank you. Now, I might be able to drag us into the bed, but I highly suggest you get yourself there instead for both our sakes.

Arthur grunted and began working on his boots.

It took the two of them longer than reasonable ( quadruple the patience), but they got Arthur unclothed and into bed, where passed out on the pillow as if he’d been battling with all his might to stay conscious. In moments, he was lightly snoring, tear-tracks still drying on his cheeks. Fucking hell, what a mess this man was. 

And yet.

There truly was something utterly fascinating about him. John could not name what for the life of him; by all accounts, this should be a disgusting experience, reprehensible, a waste of a human and a mortal and a man, but John found himself strangely reactive: somewhere on that cold, hard drive between Larson’s place and this freakish town, John had decided to keep instead of kill, and didn’t even know he’d done it. 

Well. Arthur would still hate it when the King came into his own. For a while, anyway.

Maybe.

John settled in for the frustration of night, when Arthur was out, and there was nothing to do but think.

(chapter three) (chapter five) (masterpost)

-------

Notes:

Read the accompanying chapter of It May Not Be Much Light here!

[flaviamfs]

Henry Charles Bukowski

("The Crunch")

O Estouro

demais

tão pouco

tão gordo

tão magro

ou ninguém.

risos ou

lágrimas

odiosos

amantes

estranhos com faces como

cabeças de

tachinhas

exércitos correndo através

de ruas de sangue

brandindo garrafas de vinho

baionetando e fodendo

virgens.

ou um velho num quarto barato

com uma fotografia de M. Monroe.

há tamanha solidão no mundo

que você pode vê-la no movimento lento dos

braços de um relógio.

pessoas tão cansadas

mutiladas

tanto pelo amor como pelo desamor.

as pessoas simplesmente não são boas umas com as outras

cara a cara.

os ricos não são bons para os ricos

os pobres não são bons para os pobres.

estamos com medo.

nosso sistema educacional nos diz que

podemos ser todos

grandes vencedores.

eles não nos contaram

a respeito das misérias

ou dos suicídios.

ou do terror de uma pessoa

sofrendo sozinha

num lugar qualquer

intocada

incomunicável

regando uma planta.

as pessoas não são boas umas com as outras.

as pessoas não são boas umas com as outras.

as pessoas não são boas umas com as outras.

suponho que nunca serão.

não peço para que sejam.

mas às vezes eu penso sobre

isso.

as contas dos rosários balançarão

as nuvens nublarão

e o assassino degolará a criança

como se desse uma mordida numa casquinha de sorvete.

demais

tão pouco

tão grodo

tão magro

ou ninguém

mais odiosos que amantes.

as pessoas não são boas umas com as outras.

talvez se elas fossem

nossas mortes não seriam tão tristes.

enquanto isso eu olho para as jovens garotas

talos

flores do acaso.

tem que haver um caminho.

com certeza deve haver um caminho sobre o qual ainda

não pensamos.

quem colocou este cérebro dentro de mim?

ele chora

ele demanda

ele diz que há uma chance.

ele não dirá

"não".

[onlinedeath]

the crunch by charles bukowski

[fishingforwords]

i must be some kind of cactus.

vievee francis, the shared world || natalie wee, our bodies & other fine machines || john keats || charles bukowski, the crunch

[seagrassywitch]

I wonder what the fuck I have to do for people to recognize me as a threat, you know?

unknown // Boy Parts by Eliza Park // Cécile Dachary // The Crunch by Charles Bukowski // Louise Bourgeoise // Sacrilege by Ethel Cain

[asense0fnothing]

Excerpts from 'The Crunch ' by Charles Bukowski

[april-is]

April 21, 2023: What I Did Wrong, Marie Howe

What I Did Wrong Marie Howe

Slapped the man’s face, then slapped it again, broke the plate, broke the glass, pushed the cat from the couch with my feet. Let the baby cry too long, then shook him, let the man walk, let the girl down, wouldn’t talk, then talked too long, lied when there was no need and stole what others had, and never told the secret that kept me apart from them. Years holding on to a rope that wasn’t there, always sorry righteous and wrong. Who would follow that young woman down the narrow hallway? Who would call her name until she turns?

--

2022: This Morning, Jay Wright 2021: Kiss of the Sun, Mary Ruefle 2020: Teaching English from an Old Composition Book, Gary Soto 2019: Easter, Jill Alexander Essbaum 2018: Annunciation, Marie Howe 2017: The Promise, Marie Howe 2016: In the Woods, Kathryn Simmonds 2015: Heat, Jane Hirshfield 2014: What Remains, Ellery Akers 2013: 30th Birthday, Alice Notley 2012: Untitled [I closed the book and changed my life], Bruce Smith 2011: The Forties, Franz Wright 2010: Prayer of the Backhanded, Jericho Brown 2009: A Primer, Bob Hicok 2008: Because You Asked about the Line between Prose and Poetry, Howard Nemerov 2007: Open Letter to the Muse, Kristy Bowen 2006: A Sad Child, Margaret Atwood 2005: The Crunch, Charles Bukowski