It Is June. I Am Tired Of

Yes, I Know. Death Sits With His Key In My Lock. Not One Day Is Taken For Granted. Even Nursery Rhymes Have Put Me In Hock.

To Die Whole, Riddled With Nothing But Desire For It, Is Like Breakfast After Love.

When They Turn The Sun On Again I'll Plant Children Under It, I'll Light Up My Soul With A Match And Let It Sing.

My Business Is Words. Words Are Like Labels, Or Coins, Or Better, Like Swarming Bees.

I Am Crazy As Hell, But I Know It. And Knowing It Is A Kind Of Sanity That Makes The Sickness Worse.