I Like People Too Much Or Not

Like A Cat I Have Nine Times To Die.

Poetry, I Feel, Is A Tyrannical Discipline. You've Got To Go So Far, So Fast, In Such A Small Space, That You've Got To Burn Away All The Peripherals.

No, I Won't Try To Escape Myself By Losing Myself In Artificial Chatter 'did You Have A Nice Vacation?' 'oh, Yes, And You?' I'll Stay Here And Try To Pin That Loneliness Down.

Out Of The Ash I Rise With My Red Hair And I Eat Men Like Air.

I Suppose If I Gave Myself The Chance I Could Be An Alcoholic.