History Marched To The Drums Of A

Adjectives Are The Potbelly Of Poetry.

Poetry Is The Only Art People Haven't Learned To Consume Like Soup.

All I Have Is A Voice.

The Parlour Cars And Pullmans Are Packed Also With Scented Assassins, Salad-eaters Who Murder On Milk.

We Are Lived By Powers We Pretend To Understand.