Poetry Is A Very Complex

Artists Are The Antennae Of The Race, But The Bullet-headed Many Will Never Learn To Trust The Great Artists.

I Desired My Dust To Be Mingled With Yours Forever And Forever And Forever.

All My Life I Believed I Knew Something. But Then One Strange Day Came When I Realized That I Knew Nothing, Yes, I Knew Nothing. And So Words Became Void Of Meaning. I Have Arrived Too Late At Ultimate Uncertainty.

A Little Light, Like A Rushlight / To Lead Back To Splendour.

Colloquial Poetry Is To The Real Art As The Barber's Wax Dummy Is To Sculpture.