Colloquial Poetry Is To The Real Art

I Guess The Definition Of A Lunatic Is A Man Surrounded By Them.

When Words Cease To Cling Close To Things, Kingdoms Fall, Empires Wane And Diminish.

I Once Saw A Small Child Go To An Electric Light Switch As Say, Mamma, Can I Open The Light? She Was Using The Age-old Language Of Exploration, The Language Of Art.

And New York Is The Most Beautiful City In The World? It Is Not Far From It. No Urban Night Is Like The Night There... Squares After Squares Of Flame, Set Up And Cut Into The Aether. Here Is Our Poetry, For We Have Pulled Down The Stars To Our Will.

The Age Demanded An Image Of Its Accelerated Grimace, Something For The Modern Stage, Not, At Any Rate, An Attic Grace.