Death Laid Its Eggs In The Wound

While The Poet Wrestles With The Horses On His Brain And The Sculptor Wounds His Eyes On The Hard Spark Of Alabaster, The Dancer Battles The Air Around Her, Air That Threatens At Any Moment To Destroy Her Harmony Or To Open Huge Open Empty Spaces Where Her Rhythm Will Be Annihilated.

Old Women Can See Through Walls.

New York Is Something Awful, Something Monstrous. I Like To Walk The Streets, Lost, But I Recognize That New York Is The World's Greatest Lie. New York Is Senegal With Machines.

Death, Vicious Death, Leave A Green Branch For Love.

The Artist, And Particularly The Poet, Is Always An Anarchist In The Best Sense Of The Word. He Must Heed Only The Call That Arises Within Him From Three Strong Voices: The Voice Of Death, With All Its Foreboding, The Voice Of Love And The Voice Of Art.