It Is Not Peace We Seek But

I Have Been Thinking About The Girl I Met Last Night In The Mirror: Dark On The Marble-ivory White: Glossy Black Hair: Deep Suspiring Eyes In Which One's Glances Sink Because They Are Nervous, Curious, Turned To Sexual Curiosity.

To Write A Poem Is Like Trying To Catch A Lizard Without Its Tail Falling Off.

Everyone Loathes His Own Country And Countrymen If He Is Any Sort Of Artist.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

Music Was Invented To Confirm Human Loneliness.