Well, One Gets Out Of Bed And

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

Put Your Mouthful Of Words Away And Come With Me To Watch The Lilies Open In Such A Field, Growing There Like Yachts, Slowly Steering Their Petals Without Nurses Or Clocks.

I Am In My Own Mind. I Am Locked In The Wrong House.

My Ideas Are A Curse. They Spring From A Radical Discontent With The Awful Order Of Things. I Play Clown. I Play Carpenter. I Play Nurse. I Play Witch.