The Arts Are Life Accelerated And Concentrated.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.

My Personal Hobbies Are Reading, Listening To Music, And Silence.

I Am Not Eccentric. It's Just That I Am More Alive Than Most People. I Am An Unpopular Electric Eel Set In A Pond Of Goldfish.

The Poet Speaks To All Men Of That Other Life Of Theirs That They Have Smothered And Forgotten.

The Ghost Of The Heart Of Manred Cain And The More Murderous Brain Of Man, Still Redder Nero That Conceived The Death Of His Mother Earth, And Tore Her Womb, To Know The Place Where He Was Conceived.