I Am The Slave Of My Baptism.

It Is Wrong To Say: I Think. One Ought To Say: I Am Thought. I Is Someone Else.

I Have Stretched Ropes From Steeple To Steeple; Garlands From Window To Window; Golden Chains From Star To Star, And I Dance.

I'm Now Making Myself As Scummy As I Can. Why? I Want To Be A Poet, And I'm Working At Turning Myself Into A Seer. You Won't Understand Any Of This, And I'm Almost Incapable Of Explaining It To You. The Idea Is To Reach The Unknown By The Derangement Of All The Senses. It Involves Enormous Suffering, But One Must Be Strong And Be A Born Poet. It's Really Not My Fault.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

No One's Serious At Seventeen.