Bokelskere.no

C'est la vie encore!

Every day, I go to earn my bread
In the exchange where lies are marketed,
Hoping my own lies will attract a bid.

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more

Eg vil ikkje lenger halde ut det ståkande og farefulle livet på Forum, eg ynskjer ikkje full av uro å vinne eit gjetord som får meg til å bleikne.

Å, lange tider bar eg på
eit minne om to føtter slike ...
eg hugsar dei med sorg i sinn
kvar draumtung kveld eg sovnar inn

Women have a playground slide
That wraps you in monsoon and takes you for a ride.
The English girl Louise, his latest squeeze, was being snide.
Easy to deride
The way he stayed alive to stay inside
His women with his puffed-up pride.
The pharmacy supplied
The rising fire truck ladder that the fire did not provide.
The toothless carnivore devoured Viagra and Finasteride
(Which is the one that shrinks the American prostate nationwide
And at a higher dosage grows hair on the bald) to stem the tide.
Not to die had been his way to hide
The fact that he was terrified.
He could not tell them that, it would be suicide.
It would make them even more humidified.
The women wrapped monsoon around him, thunder-thighed.
They guided his acetone to their formaldehyde.
Now Alpha will commit Omegacide.
He made them, like a doctor looking down a throat, open wide,
Say Ah; and 'Ah, ' they sighed;
And out came sighing amplified
To fill a stadium with cyanide.
He filled the women with rodenticide.
He tied
Their wrists behind them, tried
Ball gags in their mouths, and was not satisfied.
The whole room when the dancing stated clapped and cried.
The bomber was the bomb, and many died.
The unshod got their feet back on and ran outside.
The wedding party bled around the dying groom and bride.

eg låg i land i ei einsleg vik,
eg sleit i bandet i tjue vårar!

de løy våre vrinsk om til et av sine billedlige språk

thy love afar is spite at home

This country is without hope. Even its garbage is clean, its trade lubricated, its traffic pacified. The latent, the lacteal, the lethal - life is so liquid, the signs and messages are so liquid, the bodies and the cars are so fluid, the hair so blond, and the soft technologies so luxuriant, that a European dreams of death and murder, of suicide motels, of orgies and cannibalism to counteract the perfection of the ocean, of the light, of that insane ease of life, to counteract the hyperreality of everything here.

Nothing evokes the end of the world more than a man running straight ahead on a beach, swathed in the sounds of his walkman . . . Primitives, when in despair, would commit suicide by swimming out to sea until they could swim no longer. The jogger commits suicide by running up and down the beach. His eyes are wild, saliva drips from his mouth. Do not stop him.

A man who wanted to look better
But not younger is red
Swells of raw.
Later they will remove the staples.

Ten weeks later
They are younger.
They pull over
Their head a sock of skin.

Which way I fly is Hell, myself am Hell

Svelget mellom umåteholden luksus og umåteholden nød sprenger den menneskelige dimensjon.

A la fin tu es las de ce monde ancien