But Who Are We, Where

But What Are Pity, Conscience, Or Fear To The Brazen Pair, Compared With The Living Sorcery Of Their Hot Embraces?

I Am Alone; All Drowns In The Pharisees' Hypocrisy. To Live Your Life Is Not As Simple As To Cross A Field.

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

During The Last Years Of Mayakovski's Life, When All Poetry Had Ceased To Exist . . . Literature Had Stopped.

The Most Extraordinary Discoveries Are Made When The Artist Is Overwhelmed By What He Has To Say.