He paces and paces about his five-by-five foot cell, solitary confinement for years on end
With no parole in sight, no peace of mind with others and definitely not with the police
He comes off like a man who only knows how to fight, mustached man battling officers naked
For decade after decade after remorseless decade, freed for 69 days and then right back in again.
You cunts always writing about me, reading about me, shitting about me
What do you know about me? All you’ve seen of me is from that damn movie
With Tom fuckin’ Hardy, the best going today, no doubt about that
Do you know I paint? Do you know I write? Do you know anything?
My name is Charlie Bronson motherfucker
Who the fuck are you?
I can do situps and pushups for days on end, and I’m sixty fuckin’ years old
What can you do, punk?
So, that is the story of Charlie Bronson: imprisoned, released, pit fighting, jewelry thief, murderer, strangles pedophiles in psychiatric institutions, and so on. So, yeah, I like him enough to write about him.
August 3, 2013
Are these the things of a madman that I know of
Or the American Dream in action?
it’s the fucking
Oh Sadness, you served me well for so long, sir and ma’am,
And now you’re gone, I can’t hear your sweet melodious voice
-Before, before, before, I could count on you above all others.
Where will I go, when it starts to rain and rain or too lonely out at night,
and where can I go?
What can I do? What can I do-
So, goodbye Sadness, sayonara Tears,
Goodbye and so long, and so it goes,
-The Madness lives, OH YEAH!
What is sadder still: A man who sold the world for a chance at fame, or the man who lived an honest life, died an honest death, and is still forgotten about as quickly as the ingredient labels on shampoos?