The Bride, The White Bride Today A

My Tongue Is Pierced With Glass.

We're All Like The Little Sailor. From The Harbors We Hear The Strains Of Accordions And The Murky Soapy Noises Of The Docks, From The Mountains We Receive The Dish Of Silence That The Shepherds Eat, But We Don't Hear More Than Our Own Distances. And What Distances Without End And Without Doors And Without Mountains!

Everything's A Fan. Brother, Open Up Your Arms. God Is The Pivot.

I Want To Be A Poet, From Head To Toe, Living And Dying By Poetry.

Death, Lonely Death, Beneath The Withered Leaves.