Naked In Solitary Prison Cell He Looks

I Have A New Method Of Poetry. All You Got To Do Is Look Over Your Notebooks... Or Lay Down On A Couch, And Think Of Anything That Comes Into Your Head, Especially The Miseries. Then Arrange In Lines Of Two, Three Or Four Words Each, Don't Bother About Sentences, In Sections Of Two, Three Or Four Lines Each.

That's What The Shaman Said. He Didn't Know What He Was Up Against. He Didn't Expect The Strength And Weight And Evil Intensity Of This Spirit, This "entity," As He Called It. The Same Way The Priest In An Exorcism Has To Take On The Spirit.

The Typewriter Is Holy The Poem Is Holy The Voice Is Holy The Hearers Are Holy The Ecstacy Is Holy!

How Sick I Am! That Thought Always Comes To Me With Horror. Is It This Strange For Everybody? But Such Fugitive Feelings Have Always Been My Metier.

It's Time We Did Something To Assert Ourselves. After All, We Do Comprise 10% Of The Population.