Crooked Cards And Straight Whiskey, Slow Horses

Victorian Society Was Homogeneous Without Being Homogenized. It Was, To Paraphrase The Epigram About Parliament, A Society Of Extreme Eccentrics Who Agreed So Well That They Could Afford To Differ.

The Holiness Of The Real Is Always There, Accessible In Total Immanence. The Nodes Of Transcendence Coagulate In You, The Experiencer, And In The Other, The Lover.

Now I Know Surely And Forever, However Much I Have Blotted Our Waking Love, Its Memory Is Still There. And I Know The Web, The Net, The Blind And Crippled Bird. For Then, For One Brief Instant It Was Not Blind, Nor Trapped, Not Crippled. For One Heart Beat The Heart Was Free And Moved Itself. O Love, I Who Am Lost And Damned With Words, Whose Words Are A Business And An Art, I Have No Words. These Words, This Poem, This Is All Confusion And Ignorance. But I Know That Coached By Your Sweet Heart, My Heart Beat One Free Beat And Sent Through All My Flesh The Blood Of Truth.

Erotic Love Is One Of The Highest Forms Of Contemplation.

With My Own Group I Like To Keep It Loose. They Have To Counter Rather Than Go With Me. When They Stop I Like To Be Moving.