The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

To Define Is To Kill. To Suggest Is To Create.