What Is True, Is True Only For

Good Poets Borrow, Great Poets Steal

I Am Aware Of The Damp Souls Of Housemaids Sprouting Despondently At Area Gates.

At The Violet Hour, When The Eyes And Back Turn Upward From The Desk, When The Human Engine Waits Like A Taxi Throbbing Waiting I Tiresias, Though Blind, Throbbing Between Two Lives.

The Chief Danger About Paris Is That It Is Such A Strong Stimulant.

I Think We Are In Rats’ Alley Where The Dead Men Lost Their Bones.