Poetry Is The Language Of A State

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

Yes, I Know, We Are Merely Empty Forms Of Matter, But We Are Indeed Sublime In Having Invented God And Our Soul. So Sublime, My Friend, That I Want To Gaze Upon Matter, Fully Conscious That It Exists, And Yet Launching Itself Madly Into Dream, Despite Its Knowledge That Dream Has No Existence, Extolling The Soul And All The Divine Impressions Of That Kind Which Have Collected Within Us From The Beginning Of Time And Proclaiming, In The Face Of The Void Which Is Truth, These Glorious Lies!

In A Museum In London There Is An Exhibit Called "the Value Of Man": A Long Coffinlike Box With Lots Of Compartments Where They've Put Starch Phosphorus Flour Bottles Of Water And Alcohol And Big Pieces Of Gelatin. I Am A Man Like That.

Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.