When I First Met Him, He Did

He Has, Like Me, A Sense Of Smell. I Let Him Inhale Me, Then I Slip Away.

Things Aren't The Way They Are, They're The Way You Are

The Complaints Of The Child In Us Will Never Cease Lamenting Until It Is Consoled, Answered, Understood. Only Then Will It Lie Still In Us, Like Our Fears. It Will Die In Peace And Leave Us What The Child Leaves To The Man - The Sense Of Wonder.

I Gathered Poets Around Me And We All Wrote Beautiful Erotica. As We Were Condemned To Focus Only On Sensuality, We Had Violent Explosions Of Poetry. Writing Erotica Became A Road To Sainthood Rather Than To Debauchery.

Living Never Wore One Out So Much As The Effort Not To Live.