The Bed Is Now As

His Touch Both Consoles And Devastates Me; I Feel My Heart Pulse, Then Wither, Naked As A Stone On The Roaring Mattress While The Lovely, Moony Night Slides Through The Window To Dapple The Flanks Of This Innocent Who Makes Cages To Keep The Sweet Birds In. Eat Me, Drink Me; Thirsty, Cankered, Goblin-ridden, I Go Back And Back To Him To Have His Fingers Strip The Tattered Skin Away And Clothe Me In His Dress Of Water, This Garment That Drenches Me, Its Slithering Odour, Its Capacity For Drowning.

Art Need No Longer Be An Account Of Past Sensations.

A Young Girl Would Go Into The Wood As Trustingly As Red Riding Hood To Her Granny's House But This Light Admits No Ambiguities And, Here, She Will Be Trapped In Her Own Illusion Because Everything In The Woods Is Exactly As It Seems.

Those Are The Voices Of My Brothers, Darling; I Love The Company Of Wolves.

Cities Have Sexes: London Is A Man, Paris A Woman, And New York A Well-adjusted Transsexual.