Bokelskere.no

the boy walks with his muddy feet across my soul talking about recitals, virtuosi, conductors, the lesser known novels of Dostojevsky; talking about how he corrected a waitress, a hasher who didn't know that French dressing was composed of so and so; he gabbles about the Arts until I hate the Arts, and there is nothing cleaner than getting back to a bar or back to the track and watching them run, watching things go without this clamor and chatter, talk, talk, talk, the small mouth going, the eyes blinking, a boyt, a child, sick with the Arts, grabbing at it like the skirt of a mother, and I wonder how many tens of thousands there are like him across the land on rainy nights on sunny mornings on evenings meant for peace in concert halls in cafes at poetry recitals talking, soiling, arguing.

it's like a pig going to bed with a good woman and you don't want the woman any more.