Light Is Snow Sifted / To An

We Are All Jellyfish, Too Pitiful And Too Afraid Of Being Disliked To Be Honest.

An Old Body When It Is Loved Becomes A Sacred Treasure; And Sex Itself Must Always, It Seems To Me, Come To Us As A Sacrament And Be So Used Or It Is Meaningless. The Flesh Is Suffused By The Spirit, And It Is Forgetting This In The Act Of Love-making That Creates Cynicism And Despair.

For Art Is Order, But It Is Born Out Of The Chaos Of Life.

If Art Is Not To Be Life-enhancing, What Is It To Be?

I’m Only Able To Write Poetry, For The Most Part, When I Have A Muse, A Woman Who Focuses The World For Me.