And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.