(existing's Tricky:but To Live's A Gift)

If A Poet Is Anybody, He Is Somebody To Whom Things Made Matter Very Little - Somebody Who Is Obsessed By Making.

Things Which In My Mind Blossom Will Stumble Beneath A Clumsiest Disguise Appear Capable Of Fragility And Indecision

And It's You Are Whatever A Moon Has Always Meant And Whatever A Sun Will Always Sing Is You

My Mind Is A Big Hunk Of Irrevocable Nothing Which Touch And Taste And Smell And Hearing And Sight Keep Hitting And Chipping With Sharp Fatal Tools In An Agony Of Sensual Chisels I Perform Squirms Of Chrome And Ex -ecute Strides Of Cobalt Nevertheless I Feel That I Cleverly Am Being Altered That I Slightly Am Becoming Something A Little Different, In Fact Myself Hereupon Helpless I Utter Lilac Shrieks And Scarlet Bellowings

A Politician Is An Arse Upon Which Everyone Has Sat Except A Man.