Bokelskere.no

I never wanted to go to hell, but I thought I could date the devil.

Someone wants you to be a machine or else they think its just a passing phase. Lesbian per se. For their benefit I should be a mannequin—no, I never think of fucking men—they're never cute I think they smell, etc. Then you don't talk to them and it gets worse like nobody's real. I mean I am a dyke per se but unless I squelch all my ambiguities—be like a guy who won't admit another guy is cute or he'd be a faggot—Oh, no. Well I don't care. I just intend to carry on. I'm not going to worry about my persuasions or everyone's intentions—I know just how real I am. Honestly. Money in the bank.

Det er mørkt i verden
når verden er mørk

denne kroppen er av kjøtt
denne kroppen er av kjønn
hvor skal jeg gå med den
kunnskapen

gud skapte oss til mann og kvinne
så lettlurte vi er

gud er et ord
i en himmel som blir stadig mørkere

Gjennom vintermørket
har jeg ordlyset, svartere enn kull.

Jeg skal fortelle fattigmannens eventyr, tollekniv,
spade, rusthammer, sveisetråd, mikrometer, skiftenøkkel, esse,
Liebherrkran, grabb, PVC rør, malespann, bulldozer, to slepebåter
som haler tankbåten opp mot tidevannet i Hoboken,
fortøyningsgjengen lasker trossene til støtfangeren på en Pontiac
og spinner innover kaia mot pulleren, nattelysene fra New York
på den andre sida av Hudson River, oljerester i sprekkene over knokene
og blankpussete sko, ned i bunnen av tankene
og opp på toppen av Empire State Building. Hele kongeriket.
Og et slengkyss fra frihetsgudinnen.

Det er en håndfull yrker. Bønder, gruvearbeidere, fiskere,
tømmerhuggere, snekkere. Og smeder.
Resten er bare juggel og søl.
og sjøfolkene sanne kunstnere. I en tom sal.

Mens livets røde lykt slukner i kanalen akterut,
skrur horisonten et svart lokk av leppestiften,
og drar prøvende en tynn strek.

What if I didn't know what I felt anymore? I probably had never known what I felt. I only liked getting drunk and being in love. If I wasn't either of those things, I simply needed my rent, cigarettes and coffee, simple enough. I really liked the life of the poet.

We are a nation of metamorphs. Anything red compels us.

Human tool-makers always make tools that will help us get what we want, and what we want hasn't changed for thousands of years because as far as we can tell the human template hasn't changed either. We still want the purse that will always be filled with gold, and the Fountain of Youth. We want the table that will cover itself with delicious food whenever we say the word, and that will be cleaned up afterwards by invisible servants. We want the Seven-League Boots so we can travel very quickly, and the Hat of Darkness so we can snoop on other people without being seen. We want the weapon that will never miss, and the castle that will keep us safe. We want excitement and adventure; we want routine and security. We want to have a large number of sexually attractive partners, and we also want those we love to love us in return, and to be utterly faithful to us. We want cute, smart children who will treat us with the respect we deserve. We want to be surrounded by ravishing scents and attractive visual objects. We don't want to be too hot or too cold. We want to dance. We want to speak with the animals. We want to be envied. We want to be immortal. We want to be as gods.

But in addition, we want wisdom and justice. We want hope. We want to be good. Therefore we tell ourselves warning stories that deal with the shadow side of our other wants.

It goes without saying that I was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and, once I got around to it, with Dashiell Hammett's Sam Spade and Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe as well. There is something to be said for a greatcoat or trenchcoat, a back alley, and a clenched jaw, and that none of these men au fond had much respect for women did not bother me a whit: the blonde usually did it, and I was not a blonde.

What did Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did Time look like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theater, one hundred billion faces falling like those New Years balloons, down and down into nothing. That was how Time smelled and looked and sounded.

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.

The architecture of the Minotaur's heart is ancient. Rough hewn and many chambered, his heart is a plodding laborious thing, built for churning through the millennia. But the blood it pumps—the blood it has pumped for nearly five thousand years, the blood it will pump for the rest of his life—is nearly human blood. It carries with it, through his monster's veins, the weighty, necessary, terrible stuff of human existence: fear, wonder, hope, wickedness, love. But in the Minotaur's world it is far easier to kill and devour seven virgins year after year, their rattling bones rising at his feet like a sea of cracked ice, than to accept tenderness and return it.

A ghost is something that fills a hole inside you, where you lost something. It's a memory. Sometimes it can be painful, and sometimes it can be scary. Sometimes it's hard to tell where the ghost ends and real life begins.