Poetry Has Ceased To Be

I've Had It With These Cheap Sons Of Bitches Who Claim They Love Poetry But Never Buy A Book.

I Write For One And Only One Purpose, To Overcome The Invincible Ignorance Of The Traduced Heart. I Wish To Speak To And For Those Who Have Had Enough Of The Social Lie, The Economics Of Mass Murder, The Sexual Hoax, And The Domestication Of Conspicuous Consumption.

The Moral Issues With Which Marcus Struggles Would Be, As He Points Out, Unchanged Whether The Universe Were Mechanical And Devoid Of Meaning Or Value Or Ruled By Deity Or Providence; Whether The Will Were In Fact Free Or Determined; Whether There Were Or Were Not A Future Life, Or Any Even Fugitive Rewards And Punishments At All.

Victorian Society Was Homogeneous Without Being Homogenized. It Was, To Paraphrase The Epigram About Parliament, A Society Of Extreme Eccentrics Who Agreed So Well That They Could Afford To Differ.

A White Crowned Night Sparrow Sings As The Moon Sets. Thunder Growls Far Off. Our Campfire Is A Single Light. Amongst A Hundred Peaks And Waterfalls. The Manifold Voices Of Falling Water Take All Night. Wrapped In Your Down Bag Starlight On You Cheeks And Eyelids Your Breath Comes And Goes In A Tiny Cloud In The Frosty Night. Ten Thousand Birds Sing In The Sunrise. Ten Thousand Years Revolve Without Change. All This Will Never Be Again.