Uit: The Real Truth About Justin Bieber (Another Blog That Nobody Reads)
“Now if Justin Bieber is gay and/or ‘not sexually normal in some bizarre and hopefully wonderful way’ then this new strategy (probably invented by his fundamentalist stage mother to further his career) where he
a) is very rude to people
b) pisses in buckets
c) takes his shirt off all the time
is a very good idea. As we all know real men are rude to people, and piss in buckets, and take their shirts off constantly to show off their fab abs.
Okay, so I don’t really know anything about Justin Bieber. But gay or straight, kinky or not, too many girls are in love with Justin Bieber and he is too pretty and likes to dress up too much – and therefore, he cannot never be a ‘normal’ adult male guy and will always remain forever — to guys like Vinay Menon — an annoying boy trying to pretend he’s a man.
The reason all this interests me is that most sexist homophobes think all homosexuals are Justin Bieber at heart: they think we are Peter Pani-sh, narcissistic boys who never grew up, and that we are not capable of breeding or defending the homeland with a loaded gun. These days, loads of gay men are putting on bow ties, wearing masculine looking Italian glasses (whether they are actually nearsighted or not), growing beards, and adopting children, all in an attempt be accepted as normal.
It won’t work of course. Because ideas about what is a real man and what is a real boy don’t just disappear (cuz we’ve been nursing these fictions since the Renaissance.)
So when straight men like Vinay Menon get annoyed with Justin Bieber I just have to laugh. Menon is pissed off because Bieber’s doing something that most gay men will never succeed in doing – fooling the straight establishment into thinking he’s normal. And whether he is or he’s not (normal), the point is he’s not a typical ‘regular guy’ and never will be. So it tickles my funny bone to see Justin Bieber – like Michael Jackson, Liberace, Noel Coward and all those other wily imposters before him – get the big money and the mega-influence in an uptight, straight, sexist world.
More power to you, Master Biebster. Keep taking off your shirt! (I especially like that terribly important aspect of your petulant young rebelliousness!)
Cuz hey, a crazy old pervert like me likes nothing better than a good trick.”
Sky Gilbert (Norwich, 20 december 1952)
die Vogel Kutsche
für Christa Kühnhold
waren es Hühner Kinder Bachstelzen Buch-
staben welche an Weiher und in den Wiesen :
Wolken üppigen Wolken und Wiesen : wogend
und in welchen man sah 3 Gestalten mit strohgelben
van-Gogh-Hüten .. diese Unschuld diese Umschweife
zum See und der knisternde Blech Kübel bei verhangenem
Wetter das waren Granatäpfel nämlich Tropfen aus
einem Gewitter Himmel : aus einer Dachtraufe ein
Knattern und Nadel Instrument unerklärliches
Wetter Instrument, usw., die Lauch Gewächse und
Paraplues im Wald über den Geraniengärten wenn
man sie dem Regen überläszt dann fangen sie an
dann bluten sie nämlich der weisze Schirm wie
er in der Blumen Erde gesteckt hat : Firn– oder
Firnis Schnee auf dem Nacken, des Gebirges, an
der Kreide Tafel der griechischen Gaststätte
gegen das Tor gelehnt, stand, an der Spitze
der Speisenfolge ein Gericht wie GOTTES LAMM /
DAS LAMM GOTTES, im Kostüm des Regens und Herolds
: ein schwarzes Ästchen war so gebeugt und geknickt
nämlich vom Baum gebrochen dasz es die
Initiale des Dichters beschrieb.
Friederike Mayröcker (Wenen, 20 december 1924)
De kerstmarkt bij de Weense Karlskirche
One Last Poem for Richard
December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?
Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.
Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.
There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.
After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.
Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still.
Sandra Cisneros (Chicago, 20 december 1954)
Portret door Raquel Valle Senties, z.j.
Uit Let me stay for a day
“I was given a lift by a guy from Wales, who’d spent the weekend in the far north. He could use some company during the more than four hundred kilometer journey down South. Driving though the last bits of the Highlands, breathing the clean air and looking through valleys of lakes and rivers, we finally approached Glasgow, where I spent the night.
While heading southbound I was the dreary mountain scenery turn into the lush green hills of the Scottish Lowlands. That is where I met a truly fascinating person.
I was picked up from a spot by the motorway by Douglas, whose two loudly barking dogs didn’t allow me to sit in front, so I sat in the back of the van. From the exit to the old mining village of Elvanfoot we drove westwards to reach a place which, by Douglas’ account, was called Daer. It wasn’t on my map of the United Kingdom but, according to Douglas, Daer used to be a lively market village for the local farmers.
‘Nowadays, it’s nothing much,’ he told me. ‘There’s one house left, and one school.’
Douglas had invited me to Daer, but hadn’t told me that he lived in the school.
‘Great, isn’t it?’ he asked me while he unlocked the chain lock on the front door and letting me in. ‘Squatted it myself!’
I walked through a long corridor of what had clearly been a school once. One of the classrooms had broken windows and was filled with junk. ‘That’s the shed.’
Ramon Stoppelenburg (Leiden, 20 december 1976)
The Most Beautiful
It is beautiful only when I go there with you.
When there is no one else in the hall,
Kissing you is the most beautiful thing.
It is beautiful only when I’m drinking it with you.
Whoever is around,
The most beautiful thing is to kiss your mouth with raki.
This world, you see,
It is beautiful only if I’m living with you
You are beautiful only if you are with me.
You at Your Absence
I am not alone again, as always
I am with your absence at this far-eastern night
Twenty five thousand kilometers between us
You live winter, I live summer
You are in one half of the world,
I am in the other half
Still, your absence does not leave my hand
You are even more ‘for me’
That burning nakedness of you, in flames
Is a thousand times more beautiful than your presence
And as your hands talk about the deepest secrets
I don’t want to write to you without saying that
We love each other across twenty five thousand kilometers
Vertaald door Fatih Akgül
Aziz Nesin (20 december 1915 – 6 juli 1995)