Hver er að þræða villigötur auðnanna inní tún svefnrofa minna?

("Tomorrow is another day. But then, so was yesterday.") Maybe I'm just too fastidious (yeah, right) -- but be that as it may, I wouldn't presume to call it "nonfiction." It's all true though! If the truth be told, I'd rather think about Liv Tyler right now. She's such a distraction. I wonder is her glow subliminally tinged by her name's hint of "Liz Taylor"? Nah, -- that's pretty far fetched. Her coltishness -- velvety --, and (star-)crossed eyes, her overbite, so lovely that it makes my room change color ("teeth to hurt"). That's what we want from a star. How will she age I can't help but wonder. Imagine her with a dick! Wow! (Anyway I've never been so impressed by Liz Taylor. She's for real faggots. I'm not really a faggot. I just have a queer streak. A little fond affection for cock.)

I still do things that I absorbed from Him. Where are the dead? Piled up in me like a logjam? Is that why my chest is dry and hurts, why it's hard to talk? Don't be overdramatic. It's true they (the dead) can take care of themselves, whereas we need to take care of ourselves (each other). Maudlin (word derived from "Mary Magdalene!"). "One's soul is in other people."

Yes, I'm over fifty now!

and mentally skipping
around the hospital room
surprised to be alive
(don't ask)
but here-and-now so pleased
to be that suddenly I break
break I tell you, break
into
song like Anna Karina!

Good grief. Sorry. This anesthetic or pain killer (same thing, isn't it?: no pain=numb)(on top of everything else, I had to have a hernia operation) they have me on is nice, but it has me lulled (and riddled, shuddering, with parentheses)-- woozy, giddy, and well-ventilated. I am fond of freesias. I close my eyes and go the most marvelous places. Opiation. Opiation freesia places[...]
Richard Hell, Godlike, bls.24

Það er Paul Vaugh, þekkt ljóðskáld á áttunda áratugnum sem talar, sveittur á spítala í New York 1997. "Him" er T., ungskáld og ástmögur Pauls. Godlike er sagan af T., sem er dáður þó hann hafi bara gefið út eina bók, en Paul er gleymdur, geymdur á spítala.

Nei, ég hef ekki orðið fyrir neinum áhrifum á lestri þessarar bókar, ég hef alltaf verið svona.

Það er einmitt Hell sem á orðin hér að ofan, í titli síðunnar, þarna efst uppi. Þau eru úr Don't Die, óðinum mikla til Monroe, Kerouac, Dean og annara látinna stjarna -- í hverjum texta hann reynir sig við Howl finnst mér:

"I see the passionate who killed themselves with drink
Or drugs or speeding cars in order not to think
They must have felt like there just nothing was to do
Oh why hast thou murdered those who see the most in search of a true thrill or clue"

Jæja, lesið brotið, deilið þumlum; mig langar soldið að reyna að þýða þetta verk. Tímamótaverk.