I Doubt If You Can Have A

Tongues Wrangled Dark At A Man. He Buttoned His Overcoat And Stood Alone. In A Snowstorm, Red Hollyberries, Thoughts, He Stood Alone.

Poetry Is The Synthesis Of Hyacinths And Biscuits.

Poetry Is A Type-font Design For An Alphabet Of Fun, Hate, Love, Death.

The Machine Yes The Machine Never Wastes Anybody's Time Never Watches The Foreman Never Talks Back.

Poetry Is A Phantom Script Telling How Rainbows Are Made And Why They Go Away.