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"Dunski Lives"

Sammy's Thought for the Day:

"It's alright to stop and smell the flowers as you go thru life;
just don't snort up the bugs while you're at it."



All Products:

Words & Turds

Death crawls over my skin...(etc.)

Absolute Truth (or A Shockingly Realistic...



    Sam Dunski: Poet of the Gutter
              Puletzer Prize-winning Poet Extraordinaire, two times; nominated for a Noble Prize

Official Website for Samuel H. Dunski where we strive to keep his memory and writings alive and available for his myriad fans and detractors.

Available now!

[Note to all Pedants: All punctuation, capitalization and "mistakes" herein are fully intended, because Samuel H. Dunski is a cantankerous bastard and possesses a poetic license. Legal Notice]

Order books by clicking here or on the button on the left identified by the word "Products", Dummy.

Dunski Who?

Samuel H. Dunski—considered by many itinerate intellectuals and loquacious degenerates to be the Supreme Allied Commander of the International Poetry Scene in the 21st century—was born into humble circumstances in Hora, Iowa, in 1950. His parents, Bartholomew and Esmeralda Dunski, moved him to Southern California when he was ten, where they settled into the sunny West Coast middle-class lifestyle. He began his illustrious writing career at public school, considered by his classmates as a recluse and iconoclastic troublemaker. Nonetheless, he was a leader among his fellow students, and excelled in such sports as backgammon, chess and fondling his female peers.

Illustrious Beginnings

At the age of thirty-two, he abandoned college and ventured forth into the real world where he sallied into his career as spot welder. Soon after this he started his serious poetry and short stories; all said to have been instigated by a mysterious crises that brought him to the brink of mental disaster and near-total breakdown. To recover, he turned to drugs, booze, candy bars—and poetry.

As he rose through the ranks of the everyday, average, run-of-the-mill, chained-to-the-streets, can't-write-shit-to-save-their-ass poets, his work began to shine beyond them. His radiant prose lifted him, like Prometheus, high above the clouds and lesser lights of intellectually-hidebound poet-wimps and wannabes. Dunski's novels and books of poetry were beginning to garner serious praise from the near-established arbiters of poetic taste, and the critics. 

Waging the War of Words

He figuratively pummeled and smashed and ground to little itsy bits the skulls of his fellow literary rivals with his acute wit and unique, philosophical observations. Dunski turned that smelly, stinking, heap of life which is our lives, our everyday trivia, into a scintillating fairyland. His effect on contemporary poetry resembled a blood-soaked, carnage-ridden car wreck on Interstate 405.

He became a sedentary nomad, moving from apartment to apartment, in the greater Los Angeles area. During this time, Dunski's prowess as a "cherche la femme" kind-of-guy and seminal lover of the opposite sex (that is, women) gained him a reputation that extended from the alleys of the notorious Venice Beach to the mansions of Beverly Hills, including the clandestine garment district, particularly near the corner of 4th and Hope Street. His prodigious output of novels, short stories and poetry came at a thundering roll off of his word processor like sweat off the back of a charging rhinoceros in heat.

Fortune Smiles on the Worthy

Upon meeting the scurrilous Nathan Nil, a publisher who took a chance on his first book of poetry, Words & Turds—his life took an upward swing with the sky-rocketing sales of the book. His fans grew legion after the premiere of Bullets And Barf especially on the East Coast, West Coast and, curiously, in Sumatra. Fame and fortune were fast approaching, like a red-headed banshee with purple lipstick, the shade of the fires of Hell. His first Puletzer was awarded in 1988 for the twisted, inimitable Death crawls over my skin like A Large, hairy, Green Spider that eats her young and then retches them up Again. His successive works made fortunes for him and his publishing house, and were greeted with open arms and wallets and condoms by the critics and poetry-reading public alike. His second Puletzer was awarded for I Was A Male Prostitute in a Balinese Brothel. 

Flush with success, he moved to Malibu to gorge upon his long-anticipated feast of high consumption. His cup did floweth over, spillith down upon the sandy ground, and oft ruined the Chinese carpets of the mansion he had leasethed—for which he did eventually loseth his substantial security deposit.  He soon became disillusioned with the lowlifes of highlife in this sunny paradise and his poetry suffered an irreversible downturn. He could write nothing in these circumstances. Zip. Nada. Zilche.  Desperate, he abandoned the Shangri-La of beach life for a return to his beloved city. Unfortunately, he was broke and homeless until rescued by his long lost girlfriend, Juanita Grabowski.

Twists and Turns along the Way

Dunski proceeded to live out his erstwhile existence with Juanita while he plumbed the depths of his residual, fragmentary soul. He found himself unsure of his literary talents, and he worried that his new work was insubstantial. To bring his writing to new heights he dove deep beneath the existential abyss of the meanings of life and death. He pushed the limits of his luck and the envelope of chance.  That is, he went off the deep end.  Even so, after his problematic and controversial demise, Big Sammy D. immediately entered the annals of the literary pantheon.

He is sorely missed by true poetry fans, as well as the many stunning, bitchy, head-strong women from all walks of life whom he had befriended, and with whom he had shared his bed and other satyristic, poetic enjoyments. There was even talk, at one time, of a statue to be erected in Dunski's honor in an LA city park—a site highly favored by a motley collection of indigenous tramps and winos. But the notion was abandoned when the erudite city council realized the money expended on such an enterprise would diminish the very coffers supporting their city-funded, fact-finding junkets to the Bahamas, Hawaii and Paris. 

There once was Greatness in our Midst

And so, we stand in mute tribute, our mouths shut, our eyes clamped, to that one, great light of literary and poetic sensibility that chanced to grace this vast and vacuous, cultural no-man's land—Los Angeles—for a brief while, and then was hailed no more: Samuel H. Dunski, Poet Extraordinaire. Long may he wave over the city of perpetual smoke (that is, we mean, the multi-hued smokes of many kinds). Big Sammy, we won’t forget you. We have you forever. “Sam Dunski Lives.”

Hey, as long as you've read this far; why don't you scroll back to the top and buy a book?

And now, a word from our sponsors (giving you a free sample, from the generosity of their inner hearts):


My advice

        It just doesn’t come like a can of balls,

like a sack of wheat,

when you want it to;

it comes when it damn well pleases,

and none too soon;


it enters in the dead of night or

over the rooftops,

like santa or St. Germaine;

it comes when you’re sleeping or dreaming,

making love, when you’re


and running your game;


it rattles your chain and bends your mind to

     the breaking; leaving nothing of value behind;


it will use you to its own ends and

you’ll wonder what happened; why you, of all

people were chosen to lead the parade of witches and

madmen and workers of potions;

but the darkness will gather around your shoulders like a

cold, clear fog

and spit in your eye;


while it comes when you’re being

a piece of shit to your

friends or neighbors and no one can sleep because

you’re howling at the moon.


And when it comes, you’d better shut the fuck up and


and write.


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Copyright © 2007 Sam Dunski
Last modified: 12/17/07