I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.