Raw, intense and tender are what I would say to sum up this book.

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The same thought struck me while reading On Love: there is a sense of loss when he talked about people. There is also tenderness whenever he wrote for his beloved ones: his daughter, his ex-wife, his favourite lover and his ultimate love. Because there are some works that I honestly can’t relate, it seems to me that Bukowski is like an alcoholic rambling and dashing his words unapologetically sometimes. I prefer his short poems than the lengthy ones.
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Sex is nothing but true joyfulness when it comes to this ‘dirty old man’’s life and work. What I must admit is that even though sex is my least favourite part to read, Bukowski wrote it playfully and wildly with his expressive poetry language.
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It is worth mentioning, for future reference, my best-loved poems in the book (in order of appearance):
- For the 18 months of Marina Louise
- All the love of me goes out to her (for A.M)
- An answer to a critic of sorts
- A definition
- A magician, gone
- No luck for that
- Turn
- The bluebird