“Your best men die in alleys under a sheet of paper while your worst men get statues in parks for pigeons to shit upon for centuries.” – Charles Bukowski
You know me. I’m a big ol’ poetry and prose nerd.
Now chances are I’m going to upset someone because this isn’t written in a gender neutral tone and 2025 is just fucking wild about shit like that. I still can’t wrap my head around people who actively go out of their way to be offended.
(That’s at topic for another email)
So when you look at this quote. I’m just going to try and say what he must’ve meant…
The good ones? The real ones? (Men)
They die unknown, unpublished, unloved, maybe even unwashed. Buried under the weight of their own words
(paper as coffin, paper as shroud, paper as last will and testament written in cheap ink and cheaper blood)
The bad ones? (Politicians and shot callers, also them men BUT they are arseholes)
They get statues. Bronze. Marble. Pigeon loafed and sun bleached. Celebrated for generations. Their mediocrity immortalised in bird crap and civic pride.
Now. Why does this matter for writers?
It’s all algorithms and A.I. lately.
It feels like any form of creativity is being chewed up like there’s some sort of buffet at the end of the world…
The world has always celebrated the wrong people.
Ever walk past a statue and wondered, “Who the hell is that guy?”
Writers? The real ones? We’re the dirty faced, ink stained, word drunk weirdos scratching our life work on napkins and crumpled paper at 2AM while the world sleeps and the robots (who are slowly taking over the world) dream electric sheep…
What I’ve noticed is, A.I. doesn’t give you honesty. A.I. gives you consensus. Smooth, frictionless, algorithm approved slop.
Honesty? Honesty is gravel in your oatmeal. Honesty is ugly. Unmarketable. Human. Which also seems to be lacking in the marketing and advertising world since these theft machines have been slapped into our faces.
Brutal honesty is the only weapon we have left.
The job of the writer has always been to tell the truths nobody else will tell and that’s all gotten lost in the last few years.
Not the politicians.
Not the business bros. Thought leaders anyone? lol.
And definitely not the machines. At the moment they get everything and in a few years. They’ll probably get your soul.
We the writers out there are the ones left holding the torch.
We’re the ones who have to keep people on the straight and narrow.
We have to be honest, because nobody else will be. Honesty is a mess and if you look at the world right now. The world doesn’t seem to like honesty.
You gotta bleed on the page. Then everyone can stay clean.
We see the rot. We name the rot.
We don’t get statues, but we get the last word.
We’re the last line of defence against the comfort food that is A.I. slop.
I mean if you want a statue. Cool cool. Go be a politician.
You want the truth?
Follow the trail of blood, ink, and half finished stories into the alleys. Where the best people die, but the best words live.
We’re the last of a dying breed. We’re the bastards with a match lighting up the dark. Hoping and praying we don’t drop it…
Stephen Walker.