I Have Gotten So Used To Melancholia

I’ve Had So Many Knives Stuck Into Me, When They Hand Me A Flower I Can’t Quite Make Out What It Is. It Takes Time.

For Each Joan Of Arc There Is A Hitler Perched At The Other End Of The Teeter-totter.

Parties Sickened Me. I Hated The Game-playing, The Dirty Play, The Flirting, The Amateurs Drunks, The Bores.

There Is Something About Writing Poetry That Brings A Man Close To The Cliff's Edge.

It’s Never Quite Right, All The Things We Are Taught, All The Loves We Chase, All The Deaths We Die, All The Lives We Live.