Frida med pisken i hånden [...]

En vaktmesterfamilie som drar seg i sengene til utpå formiddagen. Æsj!

This is my favorite dress. The thought of wearing this dress is all that got me out of bed this morning.

Everything beautiful is far away, or maybe everything far away is beautiful.

På Jorden et Sted

Tro ikke frosten som senker en fred

av sne i ditt hår.

Alltid er det på jorden et sted

tidlig vår.

The best way to avoid writing is by reading. Then you can at least pretend that you're working.

I [...] could easily spend the entire day engaged in gossip, which I prefer to call "character analysis."

Diktene bar preg av at hun ikke hadde gått på forfatterkurs i Bergen.

Morgenbladet leste Buberg vanligvis ikke, da han hver jul og sommer måtte lese mellomfagsoppgaver.

Poetry is the connecting link between body and mind.

at high noon

at a small college near the beach

sober

the sweat running down my arms

a spot of sweat on the table

I flatten it with my finger

blood money blood money

my god they must think I love this like the others

but it's for bread and beer and rent

blood money

I'm tense lousy feel bad

poor people I'm failing I'm failing

a woman gets ut

walks out

slams the door

a dirty poem

somebody told me not to read dirty poems

here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines

I read it

out -

desperate trembling

lousy

they can't hear my voice

and I say,

I quit, that's it, I'm

finished.

and later in my room

there's scotch and beer:

the blood of a coward.

this then

will be my destiny_

scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls

reading poems I have long since become tired

of.

and I used to think

that men who drove busses

or cleaned out latrines

or murdered men in alleys were

fools.

there was one

made a thousand dollars

one day

in a town larger than

El Paso

jumping taxies between

universities and ladies'

clubs.

hell, you can't blame him:

I've worked for $16 a week,

quit, and lived a month on

that.

his wife is suing for divorce

and wants $200 a week

alimony.

he has to stay famous and

keep

talking.

I see his work

everywhere.

gnore all possible concepts and possibilities – ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust – just make it, babe, make it: a house a car a belly full of beans pay your taxes fuck and if you can't fuck copulate. make money but don't work too hard – make somebody else pay to relax, and stay of the streets wipe your ass real good use a lot of toilet paper it's bad manners to let people know you shit or could smell like it if you weren't careful.

Det skjer, at mens

du tenner din sigarett

og leser din avis på benken

i den lange alleen

med gult løv flytende

som hundeekskrementer

at oktober tar tak i

din sjel

og hvirvler den imellom

travle Parisgater,

Rue Mouffettard

der du går forbi bugnende druevogner

og inn i baren på hjørnet

for å kjøpe rødvin

og lenger nede

brød og potetstappe...

a symphony orchestra. there is a thunderstorm, they are playing a Wagner overture and the people leave their seats under the trees and run inside to the pavilion the women giggling, the men pretending calm, wet cigarettes being thrown away, Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian Rhapsody # 2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look, one man sits alone in the rain listening. the audience notices him. they turn and look. the orchestra goes about its business. the man sits in the night in the rain, listening. there is something wrong with him, isn't there? he came to hear the music.

Som om ikke den som har vært død i et sekund har vært død i milliarder av år allerede

Han forstår ikke at hun kan være sjalu på jenter han lå med mens hun fremdeles var baby

Jeg kan mange ting om meg selv som er sant, blant annet adresse, navn og telefonnummer. Iblant gjengir jeg disse tingene for å være sikker på at jeg ikke er blitt til en annen person.

[...] og diktet forklarer at døden til han som døde intensiverer livsopplevelsen til dem som lever videre

det er finere enn det høres ut (det motsatte av et dikt altså)