Art Must Not Be Concentrated In Dead

A Line Is A Fuse That's Lit. The Line Smolders, The Rhyme Explodes— And By A Stanza A City Is Blown To Bits.

Our Planet Is Poorly Equipped For Delight. One Must Snatch Gladness From The Days That Are. In This Life It's Not Difficult To Die. To Make Life Is More Difficult By Far.

The Love Boat Has Crashed Against The Everyday.

But I, From Poetry's Skies, Plunge Into Communism, Because Without It I Feel No Love.

Past One O’clock. You Must Have Gone To Bed. The Milky Way Streams Silver Through The Night. I’m In No Hurry; With Lightning Telegrams I Have No Cause To Wake Or Trouble You. And, As They Say, The Incident Is Closed. Love’s Boat Has Smashed Against The Daily Grind. Now You And I Are Quits. Why Bother Then To Balance Mutual Sorrows, Pains, And Hurts. Behold What Quiet Settles On The World. Night Wraps The Sky In Tribute From The Stars. In Hours Like These, One Rises To Address The Ages, History, And All Creation.