God, How I Ricochet Between Certainties And

I Am So Hungry For A Big Smashing Creative Burgeoning Burdened Love.

What A Man Wants Is A Mate And What A Woman Wants Is Infinite Security.

I Keep Wanting To Crawl Back Into The Womb.

Death May Whiten In Sun Or Out Of It.

And I, Stepping From This Skin Of Old Bandages, Boredoms, Old Faces Step To You From The Black Car Of Lethe, Pure As A Baby.