I Love Making, I Love

The Supposed Great Misery Of Our Century Is The Lack Of Time.

I Am One In A Row Of Specimens. It's When I Try To Flutter Out Of Line That He Hates Me. I'm Meant To Be Dead, Pinned, Always The Same, Always Beautiful. He Knows That Part Of My Beauty Is Being Alive. But It's The Dead Me He Wants. He Wants Me Living-but-dead.

He Felt Himself In Suspension Between The Two Worlds, The Warm, Neat Civilization Behind His Back, The Cool, Dark Mystery Outside. We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.

Forgetting’s Not Something You Do, It Happens To You. Only It Didn’t Happen To Me.

...all Cynicism Masks A Failure To Cope.