Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Life Is Not At All What You Might Think It To Be A Simple Tale Where Each Thing Has Its History It's Much More Than Its Scuffle And Anything Goes Both Evil And Good, Subject To The Same Laws.

Therefore Bivouac We On This Great, Blond Highway, Unimpeded By Veiled Scruples, Worn Conundrums. Morning Is Impermanent. Grab Sex Things, Swing Up Over The Horizon Like A Boy On A Fishing Expedition.

Until Only Infinity Remained Of Beauty

I Always Thought That Writing Poetry Was In Itself A Political Act.

Extreme Patience And Persistence Are Required, Yet Everybody Succeeds At This Before Being Handed The Surprise Box Lunch Of The Rest Of His Life.