Swinging On Delicate Hinges The Autumn Leaf

No Time For Poetry But Exactly What Is.

He Seems To Me To Be Headed For His Ideal Fate, Which Is Compulsive Psychosis Dashed With A Jigger Of Psychopathic Irresponsibility And Violence

I Don't Wanta Hear All Your Word Descriptions Of Words Words Words You Made Up All Winter, Man I Wanta Be Enlightened By Actions.

As Far As I'm Concerned The Only Thing To Do Is Sit In A Room And Get Drunk

At Night I Closed My Eyes And Saw My Bones Threading The Mud Of My Grave.