God Is A Lonely Place Without Steak.

I Wish To Weep But Sorrow Is Stupid. I Wish To Believe But Belief Is A Graveyard.

When You Leave Your Typewriter You Leave Your Machine Gun And The Rats Come Pouring Through.

The Role Of The Poet Is Almost Nothing...drearily Nothing. And When He Steps Outside Of His Boots And Tries To Get Tough As Our Dear Ezra [pound] Did, He Will Get His Pink Little Ass Slapped.

There's A Bluebird In My Heart That Wants To Get Out But I Pour Whiskey On Him And Inhale Cigarette Smoke And The Whores And The Bartenders And The Grocery Clerks Never Know That He's In There.

All That I Know Is That I Believe In The Sound Of Music And The Running Of A Horse. All Else Is Squabble.