Beware The Horns Of A Bull, The

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.

By His Monstrous Way Of Life He Seemed To Have Put Himself Beyond The Limits Of Reality. Nothing Moved Him Or Spoke To Him From The Real World Unless He Heard It In An Echo Of The Infuriated Cries Within Him.

The Mouth Can Be Better Engaged Than With A Cylinder Of Rank Weed.

Wipe Your Glasses With What You Know.

As I Am. As I Am. All Or Not At All.