Bokelskere.no

I have a deep respect for big-time liars. They create religions. They create poems. They make art. Liars move us. Liars make us believe that Nietzsche was wrong. God can't be killed. Only hidden.

Death does have a gender. She likes to flirt.

We act mean to defend ourselves from boredom and from those who would chop off our breasts. We act mean to defend our clubs and institutions. We act mean because we like to laugh. Being mean to boys is fun and a second-wave feminist duty. Being rude to men who deserve it is a holy mission. Sisterhood is powerful, but being a bitch is more exhilarating. Being a bitch is spectacular.

It's lonely to be alive and never know the whole story.

Robert Mapplethorpe was cute. The kind of boy I really like, slightly evil-looking with black curly hair.

Fear of not being understood is the greatest fear I thought lying on the bathroom floor at 11 P.M. Worse than not pleasing people, worse than anything else I can think of. Worse than being cold or alone. Worse than getting old.

A bunch of good-looking suburban guys, 18 or 19, same as me, who all owned cars, trashed me for two reasons: I was drunk, they didn't know me. I wrote my name on the sand with my toe. EILEEN MYLES. Yes, that's who I am. I rubbed it out with my foot.

The titles of her books in her shelves didn't impress me. You could tell she still had her college books. I'm always shocked at what people haven't lost.

I lay on the bed, fascinated by the acrid taste of piss, yet horrified at the inadequacies of my tape collection.

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.