O Starry Night, This Is How I

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

I Like You; Your Eyes Are Full Of Language." [letter To Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

Daylight Is Nobody's Friend. God Comes In Like A Landlord And Flashes On His Brassy Lamp.

The Saints Come, As Human As A Mouth, With A Bag Of God In Their Backs, Like A Hunchback, They Come, They Come Marching In.