Here’re a few faux book covers from illustrator and author Bob Staake from a series called Bad Little Children’s Books. See, I told you that right away so you’re not sitting there terrified that any of us think it’s ok to give your precious little snowflake Bukowski to read. You can’t do that. You’re going to have surly, brawly, ballsy little sad alcoholics accosting persons of sexual interest and reading them heartbreaking poetry that their Creative Writing professors in college are going to tell them isn’t good enough, because see, the structures aren’t sound and the metaphors are unsophisticated, and it’s just too raw, too raw. And they’ll be like, that’s it, that’s it, I’m renting a goddamn trailer and going to New Mexico and I’m going to work some shit out with peyote and the coyotes and move to Los Angeles and move next door to a bar. Or, you know. Whatever.
Other faux book jackets are pretty funny and dark. Here’s a passage from Women.
All I had on were my shorts and stockings. I walked out into the hall up to the nearest door. I knocked.
“Hey, I’m Henry Chinaski, the immortal writer! Open up! I wanna show you something!”
I heard the girls giggling.
“O.K. now,” I said, “how many of you are in there? 2? 3? It doesn’t matter. I can handle 3! No problem! Hear me? Open up! I have this HUGE purple thing! Listen, I’ll beat on the door with it!”
I took my fist and beat on the door. They kept giggling.
“So. You’re not going to let Chinaski in, eh? Well, FUCK YOU!”
I tried the next door. “Hey, girls! This is the best poet of the last 18 hundred years! Open the door! I’m gonna show you something! Sweet meat for your vaginal lips!”
I tried the next door.
I tried all the doors on that floor and then I walked down the stairway and worked all the doors on the second floor and then all the doors on the first. I had the whiskey with me and I got tired. It seemed like hours since I had left my room. I drank as I walked along. No luck.
I had forgotten where my room was, which floor it was on. All I wanted, finally, was to get back to my room. I tried all the doors again, this time silently, very conscious of my shorts and stockings. No luck. “The greatest men are the most alone.”
Don’t give Bukowski to children.