Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect

Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs Renewing.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.