Poets Have The Gift To Speak For

The Whole Motley Confusion Of Acts, Omissions, Regrets And Hopes Which Is The Life Of Each One Of Us Finds In Death, Not Meaning Or Explanation, But An End.

Cubism Had Been An Analysis Of The Object And An Attempt To Put It Before Us In Its Totality; Both As Analysis And As Synthesis, It Was A Criticism Of Appearance. Surrealism Transmuted The Object, And Suddenly A Canvas Became An Apparition: A New Figuration, A Real Transfiguration.

Erotic Acts Are Instinctive; They Fulfill A Role In Nature. The Idea Is Familiar, But It Is One That Contains A Paradox: There Is Nothing More Natural Than Sexual Desire; There Is Nothing Less Natural Than The Forms In Which It Is Made Manifest And Satisfied.

Death Is The Mother Of Forms.

There Can Be No Society Without Poetry, But Society Can Never Be Realized As Poetry, It Is Never Poetic. Sometimes The Two Terms Seek To Break Apart. They Cannot.