Poetry Is The Language Of

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.

All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice