I Feel That Poetry Is Going On

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

Each Servant Stamps The Reader With A Look.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.

Not Until It Starts To Stink Does The Inevitable Happen.