Why People Say Bukowski Was A Disgusting Abusive Lowlife Jerk
Didn’t matter what his wife said. People believe what they want.
Every Saturday, while the other kids played outside, Charles Bukowski mowed the lawn. North to south, then east to west. When he was done, his father would lay in the center of the lawn to look at it from eye level.
He’d turn his head this way and that, looking for blades that were too long. Missed by the mower. One was enough.
Red-faced, his father would haul him to the bathroom. Tell him to drop his pants and shorts. Beat his bare bottom.
Eight, ten, twelve, fourteen lashes.
Every Saturday, he got beat. He couldn’t help but scream, he said. After all, he was only six.
His mother would tell him his father is always right. Of course she would, he was beating the crap out of her, too.
I’ll spare you the photos of his teens…
Three times a week his father beat him, from six until twelve. One day, his father was beating him and he didn’t make a sound. Later, he’d tell…
